THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

Ex  Libris 

Katharine  F.  Richmond 

and 
Henry  C.  Fall 


C/.    ^t«-«-^^-*-^-^->^^__ 

•  '*>  /4?*? 


POEMS. 


9 


POEMS. 

7 


BY 

CLARA    AUGUSTA. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.   B.    LIPPINCOTT    &    CO. 

1873- 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1873,  by 

J.   B.   LIPPINCOTT   &    CO., 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


LIPPINCOTT'S   PRESS, 
PHILADELPHIA. 


PS 
2.150 

Jl/4-AiJ 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Apart    .        .        .        .        .        .        .'.        .        .        .        -5 

The  Asphodel       .        .        .        .        ,-.'..        ...      6 

Courage         .         .         .         .         .         .        •     -   .        .        *         .8 

The  Pilgrim  .         .         .         .        .        •  .    -. «        *        •        »         •       9 

A  Dead  Rose         .         .         .         .        .    •_„   .        .        .        .        .     n 

The  Pines     .       \        .        .      ..     '  .  '     .'       ....     13 

Lost      .        .        .    '    .        .        .; •-,.:'.        .        t  -      .-"'     .        .     14 
The  Sleigh-Ride   .        .        .    ... ,  .     ....        .....        .15 

In  Spring      .        ....        .        .        .        ...        .         .16 

The  Death-Bed 17 

Faith     . 19 

A  Little  History .        .-•        .20 

Cochecho  River    .        .        . 23 

Found  Drowned    .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .24 

Growing  Old          .         .         .        .        ..        .         .        .         .27 

The  Farmer .        .        .28 

Unsought 30 

In  Silence      ............    31 

Work!  .         .       ..    •     .        .        .         .        .        .        .         .         -32 

My  Faith      ...        t. -33 

Beneath  the  Shadow     .        .        .        .        .        .-       .        .        .    35 

At  Rest         .        .  .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .36 

One  Night ....         -37 

The  Child's  Wishes       .         ....        .        ...        .         .38 

Past  and  Present 40 

Beneath  the  Moon         .         .        .        ..        .        .        .         .41 

Arnullin's  Bride ...     43 

(v) 


1066723 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  King  and  I 45 

The  Voice .."/•'•         .         .46 

Another  World     .        .        ..        .        ...        .        .        .48 

May  Allonby 49 

Summer  is  Gone  .        .        .        ...        .        .        .        .        .51 

A  Broken  Dream  .        .        .        .        ...        .         .     52 

Croften  Tower      .        .        ...        ...        ..        .        -54 

The  Song  of  the  Factory      .        ....        .        .        ...57 

My  Suitors .,      ...     60 

Out  in  the  Cold    ..........    61 

Trifles  .        .        .        .  .        .        .        .        .        .        .63 

Marion          .        .        .        .        .'..-.-.        t        -65 

The  Drunkard's  Wife    .         .        .        ...        .        .        .66 

The  March  of  Life        .        .        .  .        .        .        .        .    68 

Summer        .        .        .        .        ...        ...".        .69 

The  Past       .        .        .      ....      ...        .        .        .        .70 

Looking  Beyond  .         .         ...'.        .        ...        .71 

Humility       ...........73 

My  Little  Lady  in  Blue        .        .  •  '  .        .        .        .        .        -74 

In  the  Snow .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        ..«-«75 

Dead  and  Alive    .        .        .        .        .        .        .        ..        -77 

Stars  of  Night        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        -79 

It  Cometh     .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .    '    .        .80 

My  Love       .        .        .        .        .    •     .        ....        .         .     81 

Brother  and  Sister         .........82 

The  Old  Barn        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .     - .     84 

Early  Fancies        .         .         .     "  .        .        .        .        .        .        .85 

False     ............     86 

From  Nature  unto  God          .        .        .        ...        .        .     88 

Something  Lost     .         .         .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .89 

After  the  Rain       .         .         .        .        ...        ..        .90 

Nearer  .  /.         .         .        .        .        .        .       ^.        .        .92 

Moonrise ...        •     93 

In  Ruin         .        .        .        .        .        .         .         .        ..        .94 

A  Memory  of  Winter    .         .        .        .        .        .        .         .         .     95 

Two  Seasons  of  Life     .         .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .98 

One  of  Life's  Mistakes          .-       .        ....        .        .        .  100 

Prayer  .         .,..        .        .        ..        .        .        .        .  103 

Awakened ..        .  105 


CONTENTS.  vii 

PAGE 

A  Change  of  Opinion ,  106 

Never  Again 108 

The  Old  Story 109 

IN  TIME  OF  WAR. 

The  Sentinel        .        .        .        .        ....        .        .        .  113 

Too  Old .        .        .        .        .115 

One  Away  .         .        .         .         .         .»...         .         -117 

After  the  Battle  .'....        .        «        •        - '    .   •        •  "9 

In  Time  of  War  .         .        .        .        •'••'.         .        .         .  121 

Little  Gray  Bess .        .        ,        .        .        .         .        .         .         .  122 

Consecration       .....'.        .        .        .         .  124 

Undismayed         .         .         .        .        .        .        .        »        .         .  128 

A  Soldier  Dead  .         .        .        .        .        .     '  .        .         .         .  129 

In  Mourning       .        .'.        .        ...        .        .         •I3i 

Dust  to  Dust       .        .        .        .        .        .         .'.,     .         .  132 

Widowed  and  Childless      .        .        .        .         .        .        ...  134 

Coming  Home    .         .        .        .'.'...         ./.         .  136 

Gleams  of  Peace          ..        ..". 138 

Spring,  1866 -    .        .        .         .  140 

At  Last        .         .        .        .        ....        ....         .  141 

POEMS    OF  THE   SEASONS. 

January       .         .         .        .'. 145 

February     .        .        .        .        ...        ;        .                .        .  146 

March         .         .        ..       ..         ..         ..        .         .  148 

April    .         .         .    •     t         •        >• 149 

May    .         .         .        .        .        .        .'.        .-.         .         .  150 

June 152 

July     *        ....        .        .        .        ...        .         .153 

August         .         .        .        ..        . '       .        .        .     \ .        .         .  154 

September  .         ..        .        ._..'.        .         .         .  156 

October       .         ..        . 157 

November   .         .         ,        .       •".        .        .        ....        .         •  159 

December  .                                                                                     ,  160 


POEMS. 


APART. 

THE  homeless  wind  sweeps  up  the  rack 

From  the  waste  of  turbid  sea ; 
I  shudder  to  think  that  dismal  waste 
Lieth  'tween  thee  and  me, 
Lieth  'tween  thee  and  me, 
And  the  dun  earth  shrouds  thy  breast ; 
But  I  know  the  verdant  grass  and  flowers 
Are  tender  of  thy  rest. 

Heavily  down  on  the  eerie  wind 

Beats  the  frozen  winter  rain, — 
It  throbs  in  the  deep,  dark  forest  depths 
Like  a  human  heart  in  pain, 
Like  a  human  heart  in  pain, 
As  my  own  throbs  on  to-night, 
Thinking  of  thee  in  the  cold  and  dark, 
And  I  in  the  warmth  and  light. 

Never  a  message  cometh  to  me ; 
Oh,  how  cruel  it  seems  ! 

2  (5) 


THE  ASPHODEL. 

Never  a  word  from  the  lost,  lost  one  ! 
Not  even  in  midnight  dreams, 
Not  even  in  midnight  dreams. 
Oh,  could  it  only  be  ! 
Send  me  a  token  !  waken  a  thrill 
Of  the  old-time  ecstasy  ! 

Vain  it  is !  wild  it  is !  I  will  be  still. 

Dead  feet  never  come  back  ! 
Why  should  they  stray  to  the  world  again, 
Out  of  the  heavenly  track  ? 
Out  of  the  heavenly  track  ? 
Ah,  sinks  my  heart  like  a  stone  ! 
Thou  art  resting  in  paradise, — 
I  am  wandering  alone  ! 


THE    ASPHODEL. 

A  FAIRY  queen,  one  radiant  night, 

Strayed  from  her  fabled  sphere, 
Down  through  the  crimson  clouds  that  filled 

The  mellow  atmosphere ; 
She  saw  this  earth  hung  like  a  lamp 

In  the  great  silent  void, 
A  miracle  of  wondrous  form, — 

A  finger-mark  of  God. 

She  folded  up  her  breezy  wings 

To  visit  this  new  land, 
And  sank  upon  a  sea-weed  leaf 

Down  on  the  harbor  sand  ; 


THE   ASPHODEL. 

The  moisture  chilled  her  tender  limbs, 

She  trembled  on  her  bed, 
The  hoarse  sea-moanings  tired  her  heart, 

And  hurt  her  throbbing  head. 

She  said,  "  I'll  call  my  minions  down 

To  build  a  palace  hall, 
Where  I  can  dwell  whene'er  I  choose 

To  make  this  earth  a  call." 
She  struck  her  lute,  a  blade  of  grass, — 

A  hundred  fairies  came, 
With  little  wands  of  yjellow  light 

And  crowns  of  amber  flame. 

Soon  as  she  told  her  royal  wish 

They  bowed  to  the  behest, 
And  flew  away,  each  with  her  hand 

Of  fealty  on  her  breast. 
A  palace  rose  :  its  towers  were  gold, 

Its  walls  of  crimson  silk, 
Its  windows  of  the  clearest  pearl, 

Its  floors  as  white  as  milk. 

Triumphant  went  the  fairy  queen 

Her  new-made  home  to  see ; 
A  gallant  orchestra  there  was 

To  greet  her  majesty. 
Robins,  and  bees,  and  grasshoppers, 

Sang  each  a  rare  refrain, — 
And  over  all  the  moonlight  poured 

Its  glittering  silver  rain. 


COURAGE. 

A  miracle  of  art  and  taste 

.The  fairy  palace  stood  ; 
The  royal  perfume  of  its  sweets 

Floating  for  many  a  rood. 
And  to  this  day  maids  love  the  flower 

Where  the  queen  came  to  dwell, 
And  bind  within  their  wealth  of  curls 

The  peerless  Asphodel. 


COURAGE. 

KEEP  up  your  courage,  friend, 

Nor  falter  on  the  track ; 
Look  up,  toil  bravely  on, 

And  scorn  to  languish  back. 
A  true  heart  rarely  fails  to  win, — 

A  will  can  make  a  way ; 
The  darkest  night  will  yield  at  last 

Unto  the  perfect  day. 

See  yonder  little  flower 

You've  crushed  beneath  your  tread, 
The  sunshine  and  the  shower 

Beat  on  its  bended  head ; 
Though  bowed  it  is  not  broke : 

It  rises  up  again, 
And  sheds  a  sweet  perfume  across 

The  arid  desert  plain. 


THE   PILGRIM. 

Then  like  the  tender  flower 

Be  ye,  oh,  weary  man  ! 
In  countless  ways  God  blesseth  you,— 

Deny  it  if  you  can. 
You've  love  to  cheer  your  heart, 

You've  strength,  and  gracious  health; 
For  these  full  many  a  lordly  peer 

Would  gladly  yield  his  wealth. 

Never  despair  !  it  kills  the  life, 

And  digs  an  early  grave  ; 
The  man  who  rails  so  much  at  Fate 

But  makes  himself  her  slave. 
Up  !  rouse  ye  to  the  work  ! 

Resolve  to  victory  gain  ; 
And  hopes  shall  rise,  and  bear  rich  fruit, 

Which  long  in  dust  have  lain. 


THE    PILGRIM. 

JERUSALEM  !  ah,  can  it  be 

Mine  eyes  behold  thy  towers  ? 
The  slanting  sunlight  pours  on  thee 

Its'  floods  of  crimson  flowers ; 
Thy  heights  rise  up,  dim,  weird,  and  grim, 

Against  the  blood-red  sky : 
Jerusalem  !  Jerusalem ! 

In  holy  awe  I  cry. 


10  THE   PILGRIM. 

But  where,  oh  where,  the  pride  and  pomp 

Swayed  once  within  thy  walls  ? 
Oh,  where  the  gorgeous  panoply 

Of  Herod's  palace  halls  ? 
Oh,  where  the  shrine,  and  sacred  cups, 

The  temple,  font,  and  throne, 
Ere  Saracen  and  ruthless  Turk 

Profaned  the  altar-stone  ? 

The  sword,  the  devastating  sword, 

Has  made  thee  desolate ; 
And  never  more,  oh,  Palestine  ! 

Shalt  thou  be  called  the  great. 
The  Cross  and  Crescent  o'er  thy  hills 

Have  held  alternate  sway; 
And  Israel's  persecuted  tribes 

Have  vainly  looked  for  day. 

And  where  the  date,  and  feathery  palm, 

And  ancient  cedars  grew, 
The  Gentile  plows  have  torn  the  soil, 

Disturbed  the  hallowed  dew ; 
And  feet  unsanctified  have  pressed 

The  turf  of  Zion's  hill ; 
And  foreign  hordes  laved  in  the  flood 

Of  Cedron's  holy  rill. 

The  Mount  of  Olives !  awful  gloom 

Hovers  abroad  o'er  thee  ! 
He  wept  and  prayed  upon  thy  brow 

In  deepest  agony  ! 


A   DEAD   ROSE.         ,  Ix 

And  from  thy  summit,  pure  and  wise 

His  words  like  balm  distilled ; 
And  Jew,  and  scribe,  and  Pharisee 

With  awe  of  Him  were  filled. 

Jerusalem !  Jerusalem  ! 

I've  wandered  o'er  the  sea, 
And  passed  by  many  a  classic  shrine, 

Dreaming  the  while  of  thee. 
And  resting  'neath  this  fig-tree's  shade, 

I  gaze  on  all  thy  dearth ; 
But  still,  Jerusalem,  thou  art 

The  holiest  spot  on  earth  ! 


A    DEAD    ROSE. 

THREE  years  ago  to-night, — a  summer  night, 
With  lines  of  purple  in  the  western  sky, 

The  sea-waves  rolling  up  the  beach  foam  white, 
And  in  the  distance  a  ship  sailing  by, 

A  crescent  moon  pallid  behind  gray  clouds, — 

Oh,  why  do  young  moons  pale  and  sunsets  die  ? — 

We  drifted  on  beyond  the  rocky  isles 

That  guard  the  broadening  outlet  of  the  bay, 

And  watched  the  billows,  mighty  piles  on  piles, 

As,  bounding  in,  they  drenched  us  with  their  spray ; 

And  all  the  land,  and  all  the  starry  sky, 
In  perfect  peace  and  silence  tranced  lay. 


2  A   DEAD    ROSE. 

We  anchored  just  below  the  reach  of  sand 
That  glittered  golden  in  the  misty  light ; 

And  up  the  rocks  we  clambered  hand  in  hand, 
Forgetting  that  around  us  crept  the  night; 

There  is  no  night  for  those  who  live  and  love : 
All  time  is  merged  in  one  intense  delight. 

How  near  it  seems  to  me  ! — that  dreamy  hush 
Of  silent  sky,  and  subtle,  sensuous  air ; 

How  'neath  his  eyes  my  face  burned  with  a  flush 
No  other  glance  can  ever  summon  there  ! 

His  head  bent  down ;  I  felt  his  gentle  hand 
Cover  my  fingers,  and  his  breath  my  hair. 

He  gathered  from  a  bush,  heavy  with  dew, 
A  single  rose,  and  touched  it  with  his  lips ; 

And  henceforth  roses,  to  my  fancy,  grew 
Sweet  as  the  nectar  that  the  brown  bee  sips. 

He  laid  it  on  my  cheek  and,  smiling,  said, 
The  roses  there  put  his  rose  in  eclipse. 

Ah,  well !  'tis  over.     Two  long  years  ago 
I  hid  this  rose  with  my  most  sacred  things ; 

Its  grace  and  glory  gone,  its  light  and  glow, 
All — save  the  perfume  that  around  it  clings. 

I  lay  it  by, — the  faint,  sweet  summer  smell 
A  sense  of  loss  forever  to  me  brings. 


THE   PINES. 


THE    PINES. 

ABOVE  the  highland  ridge  they  lift 

Their  belt  of  sombre  green  ; 
The  meadows  and  the  silvery  stream 

In  silence  lie  between. 
The  pale-leaved  beeches  and  the  elms 

Wave  in  the  lightest  breeze; 
But  it  would  need  a  rude,  fierce  blast 

To  sway  these  old  pine-trees. 

Stern  sentinels  for  many  a  year, 

What  changes  have  o'erswept 
The  land  they  look  on,  since  their  watch 

In  solemn  state  they've  kept ! 
They've  heard  the  songs  of  other  days 

From  other  lips  than  ours, — 
A  hundred  Junes  have  smiled  on  them, 

Spicy  and  sweet  with  flowers. 

They've  seen  the  smoke  of  many  a  cot 

Rise  bluely  on  the  air, 
From  happy  hearths  that  now  are  cold, 

And  desolate,  and  bare. 
Beneath  their  shadow  lie  the  graves 

Of  those  who,  long  ago, 
Like  us,  looked  up  to  see  the  light 

Of  sunset  fade  and  glow. 


I4  LOST. 

The  night  descends,  the  red  flush  fades, 

The  pines  are  black  with  gloom, — 
I  shut  the  window,  and  give  thought 

And  olden  memories  room  ; 
And,  like  a  breath  of  rare  perfume, 

Stealing  through  sweet  lush  vines, 
Come  thoughts  of  days,  bright  summer  days, 

Amid  the  dark  old  pines. 


LOST. 

THE  drifting  rain  came  o'er  the  western  hills, 

The  air  was  blind  with  spray ; 
To  thund'ring  rivers  swelled  the  simple  rills, 
The  roaring  torrents  drowned  the  grinding  mills, 

The  mists  obscured  the  day. 
She  trod  with  nimble  feet  the  beaten  track, 

Up,  up  the  mountain's  steep, 
Along  the  dingle  deep,  nor  looked  she  back, 

Though  in  her  train  the  frozen  rain 
Leaped  in  a  cataract. 

The  sheep  were  on  the  heights, — her  lamb,  her  pet, 

She  called  his  gentle  name  ; 
And,  through  the  flying  drifts  of  cold  and  wet, 
The  heaving  mists  around  her  like  a  net, 

She  vanished  like  a  flame. 


THE  SLEIGH- RIDE.     ,  15 

The  avalanche  burst  from  the  mountain's  side 

And  crushed  the  mighty  trees, 
Ran  down  the  crags  in  seas,  a  deathly  tide; 

And  men  grew  pale,  and  on  the  gale 
Rang  curse  and  prayer  allied. 

From  night  the  morning  came.     The  red  sun  flush 

Lay  on  the  highlands  bleak ; 
And  in  the  dreamy  air  there  was  a  hush, 
And  on  the  dismal  scene  there  was  a  blush 

Like  shame  on  anger's  cheek ; 
But  never  home  came  lamb  or  maiden  more, 

Down,  down  the  mountain's  steep. 
But,  fright' ning  the  old  wives,  when  tempests  roar, 

Her  voice  calls  clear  on  night's  dead  ear 
The  lamb's  name  as  before. 


THE    SLEIGH-RIDE. 

BRIGHT  gleam  the  golden  stars  spangling  the  blue, 

Round  the  white  moon  lifts  her  splendor  to  view,- 

Low  in  the  west  the  faint  light  of  day 

Dies  in  its  red  flush  softly  away; 

Pearl-clear  the  snow  robe  spread  o'er  the  land, 

White  with  the  frost  flowers  all  the  trees  stand. 

Bring  up  the  courser  !  hang  on  the  bells  ! 
Hurrah  for  a  sleigh-ride  o'er  hills  and  o'er  dells ! 
In  'mid  the  fur  robes  !  slacken  the  rein, — 
Away  like  the  wind  o'er  the  hard  beaten  plain  ! 


1 6  IN  SPRING. 

Oh,  Fate,  grant  us  wings  !  we  are  panting  for  flight 
Through  the  sharp  biting  cold  of  this  bright  winter 
night ! 

Steed,  jingle  the  bells  !  toss  your  rich  flowing  mane  ! 
And  lift  your  proud  head  in  your  haughty  disdain  ! 
On  over  the  piled  drifts  like  lightning-winged  light, — 
Up,  up  the  steep  hills  like  deer  in  a  fright, — 
Right  merrily  onward  and  onward  we  go ! 
Ye  gods  !  there  is  naught  will  compare  with  the  snow ! 


IN    SPRING. 

THE  skies  are  blue  as  English  violets, 

The  breeze  suggests  rare  tropic  airs  of  balm ; 

The  sun  in  purple  splendor  nightly  sets, 
And  evening  closes  with  a  saintly  calm. 

The  mornings  are  ablaze  with  red  and  gold ; 

The  sunlight  takes  a  warmer,  richer  hue  ; 
Rare  possibilities  the  white  clouds  hold, 

Of  grateful  shadow,  and  of  cooling  dew. 

The  brooks,  let  loose,  bound  down  the  rocky  heights ; 

No  more  the  Frost  King  binds  to  sleep  and  dreams, 
No  more  the  cold  gems  with  pale  chrysolites 

The  shrubs  that  droop  above  the  ice-locked  streams. 


THE  DEATH-BED. 

The  buds  swell  into  greenest  wealth  of  leaves 
Upon  the  great  elm  just  without  the  door ; 

The  robin  chirps  within  the  forest-trees, 

The  blue-bird  whistles  from  the  barren  moor. 

The  frog  pipes  shrilly  in  the  lonesome  swamp, 
The  sweet  notes  of  the  thrush  break  softly  in  ; 

And,  like  the  blood-red  banners  of  a  camp, 
The  scarlet  maples  show  their  blossoming. 

The  wild  arbutus  blushes  in  the  dell, — 

The  damp,  cool  dell,  beneath  the  old  pine-trees,- 

A  breath  of  subtlest  fragrance  in  each  cell, 
Of  summer's  sweetness  uttering  prophecies. 

The  day  declines,  dissolves  into  the  night, 

All  lush  and  moist  with  smell  of  growing  leaves, 

And  over  all  the  young  moon  sheds  its  light 
Before  it  sinks  behind  the  western  trees. 


THE    DEATH-BED. 

FAINTLY  came  her  breathing 

From  her  troubled  breast ; 
Feebly  on  the  pillows 

Sank  her  head  to  rest. 
Calmly  closed  her  eyelids, 

Passed  her  smile  away, 
As  the  morning  vapors 

Flee  the  light  of  day. 
3 


1 8  THE  DEATH-BED. 

Paler  grew  her  forehead 

With  each  panting  breath, 
Ghastly  o'er  her  features 

Lay  the  seal  of  death. 
Clasped  her  slender  fingers 

On  her  bosom  meek ; 
Fell  the  golden  tresses 

O'er  her  pallid  cheek. 

Passed  her  breath  so  calmly 

That  we  never  knew 
When  she  walked  in  shadow 

Death's  dark  valley  through  ; 
Never  knew  the  moment 

When  she  paused  to  rest, 
At  the  gate  which  foldeth 

Ever  in  the  Blest. 

Passed  she  like  the  fragrance 

Of  some  fading  flower, 
Or  like  summer  sunbeams 

When  the  tempests  lower ; 
Left  us  but  her  memory, 

Sweet  for  evermore, — 
Earth  has  lost  her  for  us, 

Heaven  will  restore. 


FAITH. 


FAITH. 

WHEN  threatening  clouds  of  gloom  and  darkness  rise, 

And  shut  me  out  from  all  the  cheering  light 
That  hope  and  love  shed  on  my  life's  fair  skies, 

And  joy's  glad  day  gives  place  to  sorrow's  night, — 
When  buds  of  promise  fade  before  they  bloom, 

And  crystal  cups  break  at  the  fountain's  brink, 
Or  spill  their  sweetest  nectar  to  make  room 

For  bitter  draughts  He  giveth  me  to  drink, — 
Shall  I  complain,  knd  let  my  heart  despair, 

And  from  Faith's  golden  chain  remove  a  link? 

If  thorns  do  pierce  me  unto  bitterest  pain, 

They  pierced  the  One  who  suffered  for  my  sin  ; 
If  burdens  press  me  sorely  when  I  fain 

Would  rest,  shall  dark  doubt  enter  in 
To  clog  my  soul  and  bind  it  unto  dust  ? 

To  turn  my  poor  eyes  earthward  evermore  ? 
To  dim  the  sweet  perfection  of  my  trust, — 

To  cloud  in  maze  of  fear  th'  eternal  shore  ? 
To  make  my  feet  slip  from  the  narrow  way 

That  ends  at  last  before  the  opening  Door  ? 

From  the  fierce  warfare  of  the  elements, 

From  thunder,  lightning,  hail,  and  driving  rain, 

From  wild  tornadoes,  when  tried  Nature  vents 
In  shuddering  throes  her  agony  of  pain, — 


20  A    LITTLE   HISTORY. 

Come  forth  those  days  when  all  the  atmosphere 
Is  redolent  and  ripe  with  tender  glow, — 

Those  perfect  days  when  heaven  .stoops  down  so  near 
The  angels  fan  us  with  their  wings  of  snow ; 

So  cometh  perfect  peace  and  faith  in  God 

To  human  hearts  when  wrung  with  bitterest  woe. 

All  trials  that  befall  are  for  our  good ; 

We  would  not  lose  a  single  chastening  touch 
If  thoroughly  God's  plan  we  understood, 

And  knew  affliction  profiteth  so  much  ! 
Oh,  let  me  wear  my  Faith,  an  amulet, 

That  shall  ward  off  all  doubt !  Make  me  thine  own ; 
And  early  though  my  sun  of  life  shall  set, 
•     Give  me  the  grace  to  say, — "  Thy 'will  be  done  !" 
And,  holding  not  the  things  of  earth  too  close, 

Turn  unto  God,  and  cling  to  Him  alone. 


A    LITTLE    HISTORY. 

DECEMBER'S  gloom  is  over  earth, 
The  dead  leaves  moan  and  sigh, 

And  stark  beneath  a  clouded  moon 
The  frozen  streamlets  lie. 

I  linger  where  the  black-leaved  pines 
Chant  weird  psalms  faint  and  low, 

And,  like  a  breath  of  sweet  perfume, 
Come  dreams  of  long  ago. 


A   LITTLE   HISTORY.  2i 

She  left  us  when  the  autumn  woods 

Were  gilt  with  tawny  gold, 
And  frost-flowers  white  as  Eastern  pearls 

Starred  heath,  and  moor,  and  wold. 

The  maples  broke  their  blood-red  hearts 

Upon  their  native  hills ; 
And  amber  sunshine,  soft  and  calm, 

Fell  through  the  mellow  stills. 

But  when  she  went  the  sunshine  paled, — 

She  took  the  light  away ; 
The  blue  sky  lost  its  tender  blue, 

The  day  was  not  the  day. 

The  moonshine,  falling  down  the  void 

In  silent  silver  rain, 
Filled  all  my  heart  with  vague  unrest 

And  thrills  of  tender  pain. 

She  came  back  in  the  early  spring, 

When  earth  was  all  aglow, 
And  from  the  blooming  orchard-trees 

Drifted  the  fragrant  snow ; 

Came  back  in  jewels  and  in  silks, 

And  velvets  rich  and  rare, — 
With  laces  worth  their  weight  in  gold 

Looped  in  her  shining  hair. 

She  touched  my  fingers  when  we  met ; 

I  was  a  bashful  clown, 
Who  tilled  her  father's  wide-spread  lands 

With  sinewy  hands  and  brown. 

3* 


22  A    LITTLE  HISTORY. 

There  was  a  bridal  brave  and  gay, 

Wine,  music  of  guitars, 
Laughter,  and  dancing  on  the  turf 

Beneath  the  midnight  stars. 

She  gave  her  dainty  hand  away ; 

And  he  was  grave  and  tall, 
White-haired, — a  proud  aristocrat, — 

A  Croesus, — that  was  all. 

That  night  we  met  beside  the  spring 

Where  oft  we'd  played  of  old; 
The  young  moon  gemmed  her  brow  with  pearl, 

And  kissed  her  hair's  dun  gold. 

My  eyes  spoke  to  her  !  all  my  life 

Of  stern  despair,  and  pain, 
Rushed  up  to  clamor  at  my  lips, — 

I  crushed  it  back  again. 

But  for  one  moment  heart  read  heart ! 

Her  cheeks'  glow  waned  and  fled  ; 
She  stood  before  me  cold  and  white 

As  marble  o'er  the  dead. 

Oh,  God  !  'twere  sin  to  kiss  her  mouth, 

Or  touch  with  mine  her  hand  ! 
I  was  a  low-born  farmer  boy, — 

She  lady  of  the  land  ! 

Now,  what  to  me  are  trees  and  flowers, 

And  songs  of  summer  birds? 
What  music  comes  to  me  in  winds, 

Or  low  of  distant  herds? 


CO  CHE  CIIO   RIVER.  23 

I  only  wonder  if  she  thinks, 

In  her  manorial  halls, 
Of  seasons  when  the  grapes  are  red 

Above  Cochecho  Falls. 

I  wonder  if  she'd  like  to  smell 

Once  more  the  mint  and  balm ; 
Or  if  she'd  care  to  hear  again 

The  pine  woods  chant  their  psalm. 

I  wonder  if  her  jeweled  breast 

Is  stirred  by  one  chance  thought 
Of  what  life  might  have  been  to  her, — 

Of  what  love  might  have  brought. 


COCHECHO    RIVER.    * 

A  SILVER  ribbon  winding  calm  and  slow 

Across  the  meadows  where  the  daisies  grow, 

'Tween  steep   high  banks  fringed  with    the   feath'ry 

sedge, 

Where  elms  and  birches  sweep  the  water's  edge, 
And  the  red  sunbeams  with  a  golden  glint 
Paint  the  faint  ripples  round  the  peppermint. 

In  the  mild  twilights  of  the  summer  days, 
When  hill  and  highland  hide  in  purple  haze, 
A  breath  of  music  steals  up  faint  and  low, — 
The  gliding  of  the  river,  calm  and  slow, 
O'er  glittering  pebbles  just  beyond  the  bridge, 
Where  the  great  eddy  sweeps  the  Chestnut  Ridge. 


24  FOUND  DROWNED. 

Down  in  the  gorge  below  the  rugged  hill, 
Half  hid  in  shadow  stands  the  brown  old  mill, 
And  just  above  the  willows  bend  so  low, 
Beneath  the  wild  clematis'  blooms  of  snow, — 
So  very  low  they  dip  within  the  tide, 
And  with  perpetual  dew  are  glorified. 

In  autumn-time  the  loaded  grapevine's  scent 
With  thyme,  and  mint,  and  sedge  is  sweetly  blent ; 
And  where  the  forest  stretches  cool  and  green, 
With  belts  of  sunshine  and  of  shade  between, 
The  heavy  air  is  full  of  smells  of  pine 
Blending  a  subtle  fragrance  with  the  vine. 

Oh,  fair  Cochecho  !  sweeping  on  thy  way, 
Past  old  farm-houses,  mossy  eaved  and  gray, 
Make  music  for  the  factory's  patient  slave, 
Flash  hope  and  beauty  from  thy  sparkling  wave ; 
Gladden  the  lowlands, — linger  'mid  the  flowers, — 
And  mind  me  sometimes  of  lost  summer  hours. 


FOUND    DROWNED. 

DOWN  past  the  rushes  so  dense  and  dank, 
Over  the  snow-white  sands, — 
The  treacherous,  gleaming  sands, — 

And  down  the  face  of  the  slippery  bank 

Where  the  old  gray  poplar  stands, — 


FOUND  DROWNED. 

We  hurried  with  faces  pale  and  set. 
Oh,  the  steel-blue  sky  !  oh,  the  cold  and  wet ! 
The  moon  was  hidden,  the  grass  was  damp 
With  ghostly  fogs,  and  the  wild,  fierce  tramp 
Of  the  wind  swept  through  the  shuddering  trees. 
Oh,  dreary  forest !  oh,  cold,  bleak  seas  ! 


The  waters  gurgled ;  the  tide  rushed  in, — 

In  o'er  the  moaning  bar, 

The  fatal  harbor  bar, — 
And  we  heard  the  thunderous  roar  and  din 

Of  the  ocean  depths  afar. 
The  gloom  grew  denser,  the  night  fell  down 
Over  the  sea,  the  harbor,  the  town  ; 
The  wild  gull  screamed  from  the  craggy  rocks, 
The  fishing-schooners  creaked  in  the  docks  ; 
And  through  the  masts  of  the  wreck  on  the  lee 
The  mad  winds  shrieked  in  their  fiendish  glee. 


Oh,  I  remember  it  all  so'well ! 
It  is  graven  on  stone, 
My  heart's  cold  marble  stone, — 

So  cold  it  is  I  shrink  to  look 
Into  its  chambers  lone. 

All  feeling  I  had  was  killed  so  dead, 

I  never  writhed  when  the  spirit  fled. 

Oh,  the  world  is  a  desert !  and  life  is  bleak  ! 

If  the  soul  be  willing  the  flesh  is  weak  ! 

But  I'm  looking  vaguely,  sometime,  for  light, — 

In  the  Hereafter  will  all  be  right  ? 


26  FOUND  DROWNED. 

Oh,  they  lifted  him  tenderly  up 

From  the  river's  cold  bed, — 

The  cruel,  merciless  bed  ! — 

And  a  ray  of  moonlight  pierced  the  clouds 

And  touched  his  drowned  head. 
They  lifted  him  up  with  the  glittering  gold 
Of  his  soft  hair  dripping  with  wet  and  cold, — 
And  his  blue  eyes  open,  and  fixed,  and  wide, 
And  his  cheek  dead  white  in  the  chill  salt  tide ; 
And  the  sweet  mouth  pale  as  a  thread  of  mist, — 
Oh,  God  !  the  mouth  I  so  oft  had  kissed  ! 

Drowned  !  they  said  ;  and  they  tended  me 
Like  as  they  would  a  child, — 
A  pitiful  little  child. 

They  smoothed  my  hair,  and  spoke  kind  words, 
And  I  looked  up  and  smiled  : 

Smiled,  because  my  heart  was  broke, — 

Smiled,  in  thinking  no  other  stroke 

Could  ever  cause  me  a  single  pain  ; 

But  life  is  weary,  and  death  is  gain. 

Under  the  poplar  gray,  by  the  sea, 

They  buried  him — they  will  bury  me. 

Ah,  it  is  gloomy,  sometimes,  and  sad, 

Tiresome  for  me  to  wait, — 

In  the  darkness  here  to  wait, 
Before  I  shall  enter  in  at  the  courts 

That  are  shut  by  a  golden  gate. 
I  shall  see  the  glory  glow  of  his  hair, — 
I  shall  hear  his  tender  voice  on  the  air ; 


GROWING    OLD. 


27 


And  through  the  flush  of  the  purple  even, 

I  shall  look  in  the  eyes  that  have  looked  on  heaven  ! 

Patience  a  little  !  from  over  the  sea, 

Darling,  darling,  I'm  coming  to  thee  ! 


GROWING    OLD. 

THEY  sit  together  at  the  door 

Through  which,  long  years  ago, 
They  passed,  a  newly-wedded  pair, 

In  youth's  first  rosy  glow. 
Then  her  round  cheek  was  red  and  warm, 

Her  hair  was  rippling  gold ; 
His  form  was  stately  as  the  oak : 

But  now  they  both  are  old. 

Her  blooming  cheek  is  wrinkled  now, 

The  sweet  blue  eyes  are  dim  ; 
But  full  of  love  and  holy  trust 

They  ever  turn  to  him, 
With  the  calm  faith  and  hope  she  felt 

Upon  her  bridal  day, 
When  the  long  future,  flower-clad, 

Stretched  out  before  her  lay. 

Now,  in  the  eventide  of  life, 
They  watch  the  twilight  haze 

Grow  on  the  hills  and  hang  above 
The  chain  of  land-locked  bays, — 


28  THE  FARMER. 

They  see  the  sun  sink  slowly  down 
To  gladden  other  lands, — 

They  feel  night  coming,  and  they  sit 
Serene,  with  close-clasped  hands. 


THE    FARMER. 

GOD'S  blessing  rest  upon  the  man 

Who  tills  the  bounteous  land, 
And  strews  the  yellow  grain  broadcast 

With  free,  ungrudging  hand ; 
Who  makes  the  barren  moorland  smile 

With  wheat  and  golden  corn, 
The  verdant  grass  to  spring,  at  will, 

Where  lurked  the  worthless  thorn. 

Oh,  bless  his  toil  with  full  success  ! 

Let  soft  and  gentle  rains 
Revive  his  thirsty  pasture  hills 

And  fertilize  his  plains  ! 
And  send  the  sunshine  down  to  warm 

The  frosty  breast  of  earth, 
That  crimson  wealth  of  clover  blooms 

May  spring  to  odorous  birth  ! 

An  independent  life  is  his, 

Fraught  but  with  honest  gains, — 

Wrung  not  from  pale-faced,  widowed  ones, 
Or  orphans'  hunger  pains. 


THE  FARMER. 

Honest  and  fearless,  free  and  glad, 

A  very  prince  is  he  ! 
At  peace  with  God,  in  love  with  truth, 

With  man  in  harmony. 

His  lot  is  cast  in  nature's  fanes, 

Beneath  a  lucky  star, — 
What  is't  to  him  that  railroad  stocks 

Are  quoted  under  par? 
The  banks  may  break,  canals  burst  up, 

And  mining  sections  fail ; 
He's  left  to  him  his  wide-spread  fields, 

His  threshing-floors,  and  flail. 

His  children  throng  about  his  knee 

When  gloaming-time  creeps  on, 
And  hang  around  his  sturdy  neck, 

To  kiss  him  one  by  one. 
The  ruddiest  cheeks  and  sweetest  lips, 

The  brightest  eyes,  are  theirs, — 
The  rarest  smile  in  all  the  town 

The  farmer's  daughter  wears. 

God  bless  the  farmer  !  bless  him  well ! 

A  royal  life  he  owns  ! 
He  reads  his  lore  from  mountain  heights, 

His  sermons  from  the  stones ; 
His  college  halls  are  nature's  wilds, 

And  gorgeous  summer  sky, — 
The  vast  cathedral  where  he  prays 

Is  heaven's  arched  canopy. 
4 


29 


3° 


UNSOUGHT. 

Let  the  rich  scorn  his  sunburnt  hands, 

And  cheek  so  rough  and  brown  ; 
But  when  the  proud  man  at  his  feast 

In  courtly  glee  sits  down, 
The  luscious  grape,  the  downy  peach, 

The  wine  in  silver  can, 
The  snowy  bread — he  owes  them  all 

Unto  the  husbandman. 


UNSOUGHT. 

I  GIVE  thee  all  I  have  to  give 

From  out  my  soul's  unsounded  deep ; 

I  could  not  give  thee  more  and  live, 
My  life  is  all  I  keep. 

No  hopes,  no  doubts,  no  fears  abide, 

To  warm  or  chill  my  young  life's  blood, — 

The  golden  gates  I  throw  them  wide 
And  lavish  forth  the  flood. 

My  nightly  prayers  are  all  for  thee ; 

My  thoughts  and  longings  all  are  thine ; 
The  blessings  that  were  meant  for  me, 

Lord,  make  them  thine,  not  mine. 

Flowers  yield  their  fragrance,  wood-birds  sing, 
Streams  feed  the  hungry,  grasping  sea, 

Day  and  the  sun  their  pure  light  bring ; 
So  bring  I  love  to  thee. 


IN  SILENCE. 

The  summer  rain  falls  down  to  bless 
The  thirsty  world  it  murmurs  o'er ; 

And  so  in  wordless  happiness 
I  give,  and  ask  no  more. 

I  note  full  well  thy  heedless  air, 
From  thy  cold  eyes  I  turn  away  ; 

I  know  I  have  no  portion  there ; 
But  I  can  wait,  and  pray. 

Perhaps, — I  make  no  idling  sure, — 
Perhaps  in  years  long  hence, 

That  other  world,  so  bright  and  pure, 
May  make  me  recompense. 


31 


IN    SILENCE. 

A  LONG  low  line  of  blue  hills  toward  the  west, 
Above  them  lingering  still  a  crimson  stain, — 

A  purple  shade  of  azure  in  the  east, 

And  lying  under  it  a  grass-grown  plain. 

A  river  broad  and  deep,  with  wooded  shores, 
Bearing  upon  its  breast  a  boat  snow-white, — 

An  idle  rower  leaning  on  the  oars, 

And  drifting  with  the  silence  and  the  night. 

The  birds,  so  wearied  with  the  day's  sweet  songs, 
Have  sought  their  eyries  in  the  forest-trees ; 

Not  even  a  lonesome  nightingale  prolongs 
The  wild  wood  concert  with  her  melodies. 


32 


WORK. 


The  moon,  so  calm  in  holy  quietude. 

Sails  in  the  pathless  orean  of  the  blue; 
As  if  to  cheer  her  queenly  solitude, 

A  single  star  from  the  pale  gloom  peeps  through. 

The  shadows  thicken.     On  the  southern  ridge 
The  weird  pine  forest  rises  grim  and  black, — 

The  white  road  leading  to  the  alder  bridge 

Gleams  through  the  maples  like  a  ghostly  track. 

The  lush  green  meadows  send  up  clouds  of  mist, 
White  as  the  snow  that  falls  from  wintry  skies ; 

Day's   forehead   pales   where  Night  has  stooped   and 

kissed 
To  gloom  and  silence  all  her  brilliant  dyes. 


WORK! 

LAGGARD  !  thou'rt  sitting  idly, 

With  useless  folded  hands, — 
Unmindful  of  the  desert  spots 

And  wastes  of  barren  lands. 
Up  !  rouse  from  this  dead  stupor, 

And  gird  thine  armor  on  ! 
When  once  a  firm  resolve  is  made, 

Full  half  the  battle's  won  ! 

What  right  hast  thou  to  squander 
The  talents  God  has  sent  ? 

What  right  in  rust  to  bury 
The  powers  He  has  lent  ? 


MY  FAITH. 

Do  battle  bravely,  ever, 

In  stern  defense  of  right, 
And  carve  in  faith  a  shining  way 

Up  to  the  hills  of  light. 

The  whole  world  calls  for  labor  ! 

There  is  a  thirsty  dearth 
Of  earnest,  working  Christian  souls, 

Throughout  this  wide-spread  earth  ; 
A  lack  of  strong-armed  pioneers 

To  break  the  ranks  of  sin, 
And  woo  to  Virtue's  safe  retreat 

The  footsore  wanderer  in. 

Up  from  this  dull  supineness  ! 

Up  with  a  righteous  trust ! 
Why  in  this  aimless,  idle  life 

Let  noble  talents  rust  ? 
Work  while  the  day  endureth, 

Work  ere  the  night  shall  come ; 
At  evening,  when  the  shadows  fall, 

God  calls  his  servants  home. 


33 


MY    FAITH. 

WHEN  quiet  reigns  upon  the  earth, 

And  placid  is  the  sky, 
With  not  an  angry  cloud  to  dim 

The  crystal  vault  on  high  ; 
When  gentle  happiness  is  mine, 

And  care  has  fled  my  breast, 


34 


MY  FAITH. 

When  not  a  stormy  trouble  tears 
The  calm  sea  of  my  rest, 

0  God,  I  fear  that  I  ignore 
Thy  goodness  and  thy  grace, 

And  turn  to  other  shrines,  away 
From  thy  resplendent  face  ! 

When  all  around  me  is  serene, 

No  threatening  peril  nigh, 
And  loving  ones  are  by  my  side 

To  bid  all  trials  fly, 

1  greatly  fear  me  that  I  put 

Aside  my  sacred  trust, 
And  place  my  faith  in  other  gods 

Formed  out  of  clay  and  dust ; 
Though  well  I  know  all  power  but  thine 

Is  impotent  to  save, 
And  that  thy  love,  and  thine  alone, 

Can  find  me  in  the  grave. 

But  when  grim  danger  glowers  at  me, 

And  chills  my  blood  to  stone ; 
When  fickle  friends  flee  from  my  side 

And  leave  me  all  alone ; 
When  heart  and  spirit  faint  and  fail, 

And  flesh  grows  sorely  weak  : — 
What  can  I  do  but  come  to  Thee, 

All  broken,  contrite,  meek? 
For  when  the  storms  arise,  and  beat 

My  life-bark  out  to  sea, 
Whom  have  I,  Lord,  on  earth  beside, 

And  whom  in  heaven,  but  Thee? 


BENEATH  THE   SHADOW.  35 


BENEATH    THE    SHADOW. 

I  WALK  on  the  hill-tops,  I  smell  the  wild  roses, — 

Sweet  roses  that  clamber  and  blossom  at  will, — 
I  gather  whole  handfuls,  and  wonder  what  sweetness 

They  lack, — and  my  heart  lieth  still 
And   dumb   in   the   Present.     With  thoughts  of  the 
Future  ? 

Ah,  no  ! — with  a  longing  for  blessedness  fled. 
Oh,  Life  so  relentless !  oh,  Time  !  stop  a  moment, 

And  let  me  uncover  the  face  of  my  dead. 

The  Past !  Let  me  look  at  it  only  a  moment : 

An  eternity  boundless,  exquisite  in  pain ; 
Oh,  could  I  roll  back  the  wheels  of  Time's  chariot, 

And  live, — just  live  over  that  heaven  again  ! 
Rare  heaven  of  sweetness  !  oh,  heart  mute  with  anguish, 

Is  there  any  bitterness  like  unto  this, 
In  days  that  are  barren  and  bleak  as  the  desert, 

The  remembering  of  hours  that  were  golden  with 
liss? 

One  voice  was  the  music  to  me  of  all  Eden, 

One  smile  was  the  heaven  wherein  I  took  rest. 
Did  I  care  if  the  world  went  on,  or  stood  stagnant, 

When  his  arms  were  around  me,  my  head  on  his 

breast  ? 
Oh,  silence  was  eloquent !  sacredest  stillness 

Was  sweeter  than  harp-notes  or  music  of  spheres  ; 
1  swam  in  a  joy  so  profound,  so  exquisite, 

It  found  no  expression  save  only  in  tears. 


36  AT  REST. 

Ah,  well !   it  is  over.     The  fair  skies  are  leaden, 

The  soft  summer  breezes  are  chill  as  the  tomb ; 
I  shiver  with  dread  as  they  sweep  through  the  tree-tops, 

They  strike  to  my  heart  like  the  voices  of  doom. 
Oh,  is  there  no  balsam,  no  healing  in  Gilead  ? 

No  help  for  the  anguish,  no  cure  for  the  pain  ? 
Can  I  never  escape  from  the  weight  of  this  burden  ? 

Shall  I  never  come  forth  from  the  shadow  again? 


AT    REST. 

IN   MEMORY   OF   AGNES,  AGED   TWENTY-TWO. 

GATHER  white  lilies,  emblems  of  her  life, 

Spotless  and  pure,  and  lay  them  on  her  brow ; 

She  has  passed  upward  from  this  restless  strife, 
And  with  the  angels  lifts  her  rare  voice  now ! 

Before  her  semblance  left  in  mortal  clay, 
Oh,  solemn  gazer  !  in  mute  reverence  bow. 

Silent  and  pale  she  lies,  with  folded  hands ; 

Touched  is  her  forehead  with  celestial  calm ; 
Smiling  her  lips,  as  if  the  heavenly  lands 

Burst  on  her  vision  with  their  airs  of  balm, — 
Or  as  she  heard,  through  boundless  arches,  swell, 

The  diapason  of  some  grand  sweet  psalm. 

Utter  no  vain  repinings  o'er  her  clay ; 

Drop  on  her  face  no  useless  meed  of  tears ; 


ONE   NIGHT. 


37 


Lay  her  within  the  conquered  grave  away, 

And  cast  out  all  your  troubles,  doubts,  and  fears. 

Why  weep  for  one  who,  in  the  courts  of  heaven, 
Shall  dwell  through  all  eternity's  bright  years? 

Call  her  not  dead,  but  say  an  angel's  kiss 

Has  pressed  her  lips  with  tenderness  and  love, — 

Won  her  pure  spirit  to  the  home  of  bliss, 

Where  with  the  saved  her  happy  feet  shall  rove  ! 

What  better  fate  than  to  be  with  her  God, 
And  with  his  angels  in  the  realms  above? 

Ay,  turn  away  !     She  is  no  more  of  earth  ; 

But  her  example,  deathless  as  the  stars, 
Has  fallen  on  you  at  her  glad  new  birth, 

Fallen  adown  through  the  sky's  purple  bars. 
Accept  the  trust,  and  be  not  sad  for  her 

Whose  palm-crowned  forehead  not  a  shadow  mars. 


ONE    NIGHT. 

I  WANDERED  down  the  moonlit  woods 
One  calm  October  night, — 

The  very  poplar-leaves  hung  still, 
The  zephyrs  were  so  light. 

The  pink-tinged  radiance  of  the  sky, 
Love-flushed  the  blazing  stars, 

Until  my  soul  leaped  up  to  break 
These  mortal  prison  bars. 


38  THE   CHILD'S    WISHES. 

The  brook  ran  softly  o'er  the  grass, 

Impearling  pebbles  gray, — 
The  waterfall  in  fleecy  clouds 

Of  mist  dissolved  away. 

The  air  so  calm,  and  cool,  and  clear, 
I  seemed  to  pierce  the  screen, 

And  look  far  up  the  ether  voids 
To  heavenly  pastures  green. 

The  crimson  maples  cast  their  leaves 

Low  at  my  lingering  feet, 
And  all  the  languorous  atmosphere 

With  dying  flowers  was  sweet. 

Lone !  but,  oh,  grand  !  these  autumn  woods  ! 

Sad,  cold  and  desolate  ! 
The  cast-off  leaves  and  wan  moonlight, 

The  brown  earth  tesselate. 

Solemn  and  still, — my  soul  is  awed  ! 

Silence  my  spirit  gives 
For  all  this  beauty  !    Here,  O  God, 

Thy  fullest  presence  lives  ! 


THE    CHILD'S    WISHES. 

OH,  if  I  were  a  robin, 

With  breast  of  crimson  red, 

And  black  and  shiny  feathers 
On  my  bonny,  roguish  head, 


7 HE    CHILD'S    WISHES. 

So  high  above  the  tree-tops, 
Dear  mother,  I  could  fly, 

You'd  almost  think  me  sailing  up 
To  visit  yonder  sky. 

Oh,  if  I  were  the  south-wind, 

That  sings  so  soft  and  deep, 
And  scampers  down  the  hillside 

Among  the  flocks  of  sheep, 
I'd  fan  the  little  lambkins 

Through  every  sultry  day, 
And  make  the  sweet  white  clover 

Bloom  for  them  all  the  way. 

Oh,  if  I  were  the  streamlet 

Down  in  the  mossy  dell, 
I'd  sing  the  whole  time  gently 

To  the  listening  lily-bell, — 
I'd  water  thirsty  meadows, 

And  verdant  make  the  grass, 
And  all  the  little  sleepy  flowers 

Would  laugh  to  see  me  pass. 

Oh,  if  I  were  a  daisy 

In  some  shady  wayside  nook, 
Where  the  pretty  village  maidens 

Would  pause  on  me  to  look, 
I'd  charm  them  with  my  fragrance 

Of  half  their  gentle  love, 
With  my  eyes  so  bright  and  starry 

Lifted  unto  heaven  above. 


39 


PAST  AND   PRESENT. 

But  if  I  were  a  robin, 

Or  the  south-wind,  soft  and  low, 
Or  the  little  gliding  streamlet, 

Or  a  modest  daisy  blow, 
Mother,  I  could  not  slumber 

Upon  your  snowy  breast ; 
Your  kisses  would  not  soothe  me 

In  the  night-time  into  rest. 

So  I'd  rather  be  your  darling 

Than"  anything  on  earth, — 
I'm  happy  as  the  happiest  thing 

That  ever  had  a  birth  ! 
I'd  not  be  bird  or  streamlet, 

South-wind  or  daisy  pearl ; 
But  let  me  stay  here,  mother  dear, 

And  be  your  little  girl. 


PAST    AND    PRE  S  ENT. 

WHAT  has  life  lost  of  its  old  royal  grace, 

That  even  the  flowers  whisper  to  me  of  death  ? 

Perhaps  because  they  laid  them  on  his  face, — 

His  pale,  cold  face  they  warmed  not  with  their  breath. 

The  musky  odor,  sweet  to  stifling  pain, 

Brings  back  that  hour  of  mute  despair  again. 

And,  memory  once  aroused,  how  many  things 
Return  to  us  we  cast  forth  long  ago  ! 


BENEATH   THE   MOON.  41 

What  pain,  sometimes,  a  flower,  or  sweet  scent,  brings 

From  ashes  that  we  thought  had  lost  all  glow  ! 
A  touch,  a  tone,  a  breath, — ah,  human  heart ! 
How  strangely  fashioned,  governed,  moved,  thou  art ! 

The  maple's  flame  that  lights  the  autumn  hills, 
The  wasted  gold  of  these  wild  woodland  ways, — 

The  damp,  sweet,  bosky  vapor  that  distills 
On  purple  ridges,  all  recall  lost  days ; 

And  cloudless  sunsets  do  for  evermore 

Restore  me  something  of  the  Gone  Before. 

There  are  grand  gleams  of  an  immortal  life 
Lying  beyond  this  brief  elapse  of  Time, 

And  our  hegira  from  this  troublous  strife, 
Though  weakly  dreaded,  is  a  thing  sublime  ! 

To  blend  all  Time,  Space,  Past,  and  all  To  Come, 

Into  one  PRESENT  in  that  perfect  home ! 


BENEATH    THE    MOON. 

UNDER  the  moon  how  the  still  waters  gleam  ! 
The  silver  is  over  the  breast  of  the  stream  ; 
The  cream-white  lilies  droop  languidly  down, 
In  fragrance  the  red  roses  sleepily  drown  ; 
The  feathery  willow-trees  shimmer  and  shine, 
The  dew  lies  in  diamonds  upon  the  wild  vine ; 
The  asphodel  closes  its  nectarous  cup, 
The  passion-flower  folds  its  rare  beauty  up ; 
And  the  scent  of  the  thyme,  and  the  mint,  and  the  balm, 
Floats  out  on  the  wings  of  the  infinite  calm. 

5 


42  BENEATH  THE   MOON. 

The  meadows  lie  quietly  wearing  the  green, — 
The  elms  to  the  linden-trees  lovingly  lean  ; 
The  pastures  are  silent,  the  flocks  are  asleep, 
The  sturdy  red  oxen  beside  the  white  sheep ; 
No  tinkle  of  cow-bells,  no  shepherd  boy's  cry,       f 
The  cricket's  dull  songs  on  the  sweet  silence  die ; 
The  amber-winged  beetles  cling  fast  to  the  trees, 
The  golden-green  butterflies  hide  in  the  leaves ; 
The  bee  has  flown  home  with  his  burden  of  sweets, 
And  rests  in  the  twilight  from  summer  noon's  heats. 

The  drowsy  old  farm-houses  hidden  away 

Under  hills,  and  in  valleys,  mossy  and  gray, 

Are  silent  as  churchyards, — the  spirit  of  rest 

Has  stolen  upon  them  and  maketh  them  blest ; 

And  over  the  shade  and  the  green  of  "  Love's  Lane" 

The  silence  intensifies,  e'en  unto  pain. 

The  west  sky  wears  faintest  suggestions  of  pink, 

Like  a  brook  when  a  red  rose  stoops  over  to  drink ; 

The  forest  spring  murmurs  a  mystical  tune, 

And  its  sweet  waters  sparkle  under  the  moon. 

Oh,  will  the  moon  shine  thus  in  all  coming  time, 
And  earth  breathe  her  vague  voices  subtly  sublime  ? 
The  flowers  burn  with  crimson,  and  purple,  and  blue, 
The  red  rose  be  red,  and  the  true  heart  be  true? 
Ah  !  some  time  in  the  mystical  Future,  we  know, 
We  shall  all  pass  away  from  the  light  and  the  glow ; 
The  dew-drops  will  glitter,  like  pearls  in  their  beds, 
In  the  damp  grass  that  covers  our  low-lying  heads ; 
And  the  robins  will  sing  through  the  beautiful  June, 
And  the  earth  lie  in  love  'neath  the  beautiful  moon. 


ARNULLIWS  BRIDE.  43 


ARNULLIN'S    BRIDE. 

THEY  left  her  in  the  haunted  room  where  Lady  Alice 

died, 
In  the  castle  where  for  centuries  had  dwelt  the  sons  of 

pride, — 
The  haughty  race  by  ties  of  blood  to  royalty  allied. 

How  the  shadows  lowered  and  thickened  o'er   that 

lonely  bridal  room  ! 
And  the  air  of  coming  tempest  made  the  windows  dark 

with  gloom ; 
And  the  damp  old  silken  tapestry  was  odorous  of  the 

tomb. 

The  night  was  demon-haunted ;  all  the  ^Egean  spirits 

woke ; 
On    the   fire-blackened    mountain   cliffs   the   thunder 

pealed  and  broke ; 
And  in  the  wailing  of  the  winds  a  lost  immortal  spoke. 

Around  the  grim  old  turrets  the  boding  raven  swooped, — 
The  night's  Plutonian  darkness  o'er  his  dismal  shadow 

drooped ; 
And  the  clouds,  like  phantom  visitants,  across  the  sky's 

plain  trooped. 


44 


ARNULLIN'S  BRIDE. 


Oh,  the  gloom  of  vaulted  ceilings !  oh,  the  gloom  of 
musty  halls  ! 

Did  he  dare  to  let  the  taper  stream  up  the  oaken  walls? 

Did  he  dare,  to  pause  and  listen  to  his  stealthy  foot 
step's  falls? 

A  tale  of  blood  and  horror  that  bridal  room  might  tell ! 
What  dismal  burden  was  laid  down  in  yonder  tangled 

dell? 
What  crime  was  ever  half  so  black  this  side  the  gates 

of  hell? 

Night  waned.     They  called  her  to  the  feast  in  bowers 

of  jessamine ; 
They  rapped  upon  her  bolted  door,  crying,  vainly, 

"Geraldine! 
The  board  is  spread,  the  master  waits,  and  crimson  is 

the  wine  !" 

They  burst  the  bars, — an  empty  room !  a  bed  as  softly 

white 
As  the  great  drifts  the  snow-king  piles  up  on  some 

yule-tide  night ! 
A  silent  dearth  !  a  nuptial  room  shorn  of  its  ripe  delight ! 

They  sought  her  far,  and  heralds  went  throughout  the 

country  wide, 
Asking  of  all  if  they  had  seen  Arnullin's  missing 

bride : 
But,  ah !  the  gates  of  death  were  strong  as  the  Earl's 

regnant  pride ! 


THE  KING  AND   I. 


THE    KING    AND    I. 

THE  King  rules  over  the  country; 

But  never  a  whit  care  I. 
My  little  meagre  dominion 

Is  all  in  my  hopeful  eye. 
He  has  a  million  of  troubles ; 

I  am  at  peace  with  man, 
I  have  put  ill-tempered  ambition 

Under  eternal  ban : 
Why  should  I  envy  royalty? 

Answer  me,  if  you  can  ! 

The  Queen  smiles  on  her  courtiers, 

The  duke's  lips  press  her  hand  ; 
My  little  wife  would  scorn  kisses 

From  the  noblest  in  the  land  ! 
Given  to  me  her  heart  is, 

Sacred  to  me  her  lips, — 
Never  dares  an  admirer 

Press  e'en  her  finger-tips ; 
And  her  gentle,  wifely  beauty 

Puts  the  Queen  in  eclipse. 


45 


The  King  is  a  jovial  liver, 
Drinks  of  the  rubiest  wine, 

Is  clothed  in  the  royal  ermine 
And  linen  matchlessly  fine  ; 

Has  pages  to  guess  his  wishes, 
Minions  to  come  at  his  nod, 

H* 


46  THE    VOICE. 

And  amid  his  palace  royalties 

Rules  like  a  demigod  ! 
Which  will  lie  highest  and  softest, 

He,  or  I,  under  the  sod? 

Give  me  my  lowly  cottage, 

My  wife  and  my  brown-eyed  girl ! 
One  is  my  royal  diamond, 

The  other  my  priceless  pearl ! 
Go,  King  !  ride,  drink,  and  conquer, 

Joy  in  your  birth  and  your  pride ; 
I  wouldn't  lift  up  a  finger 

To  sit  on  the  throne  by  your  side ! 
For  God  and  a  true  love  have  blessed  me ; 

What  can  I  ask  for  beside  ? 


THE    VOICE. 

THERE'S  a  mute  voice  ever  singing  to  me  in  the  depths 

of  air, 
I   hear  its   plaintive   breathings,   soft   and   lonesome, 

everywhere, — 
By  the  river,   on   the  mountain,   and  the   moorland 

ghostly  bare. 

Chanting,  chanting,  ever  chanting,  its  solemn  melody, 
Like  a  »myriad  tiny  pearl-shells  in    the  deep  and  un 

known  sea, 
Like  a  band  of  little  fairies  in  a  bed  of  rosemary. 


THE    VOICE.  47 

When  the  purple  shades  of  night-time  steal  down  the 

gold  of  day, 
And  the  evening  flames  of  amber  make  the  west  a 

shining  way, 
That  lone  and  mystic  melody  my  spirit  hears  alway. 

'Tis  a  lute  no  mortal  fingers  the  golden  strings  have 

swept, 
The  rich  voice  of  an  oriole  whose  tones  have  always 

slept, — 
A  moaning,  sighing  human  voice  which  has  forever 

wept. 

Across  the  clover  meadows  where  they  rake  the  new- 
mown  hay, 

And  from  the  azure  bosom  of  the  pulseless  crystal  bay,— 
In  the  dead  nights  of  December,  in  the  passion  noons 
of  May. 

Full  of  tender,  soft  complaining,  floating  through  the 
amethyst, 

Like  a  ray  of  summer  sunshine  on  the  evening's  sombre 
mist, — 

Like  an  unplayed  strain  of  music  waiting  in  the  wind- 
harp's  cyst. 

Lowly,  gently, — never  joyous ;  one  subdued  and  hal 
lowed  strain, 

Like  the  dripping  on  the  scented  leaves  of  fragrant 
August  rain, — 

'Tis  of  her  heavenly  harp-strings  the  mystical  refrain. 


48  ANOTHER    WORLD. 

Oh,  my  soul  it  leaps  and  struggles  like  the  ever-trem 
bling  stars ! 

Beats  against  its  clay-walled  prison  like  the  sea-waves 
'gainst  the  bars, 

Chafes  like  a  gallant  soldier  prisoned  in  the  sight  of 
wars  ! 

All  the  world  is  spirit-haunted,  only  that  we've  ears  of 

stone ; 
Calling !  calling !  ever  calling  !  I  have  ears  for  that 

alone ! 
Oh,  a  phantom  voice  is  calling  me  from  shadeland's 

vast  unknown  ! 


ANOTHER    WORLD. 

THERE  are  brighter  skies  than  these,  I  know; 

Lands  where  no  shadows  lie, — 
Fields  where  the  flowers  are  always  fresh, 

And  founts  which  never  dry. 
There  are  domes  where  the  stars  are  never  dim. 

Where  the  moon  forever  gleams, 
And  the  wind  in  music  sweeps  the  hills 

And  ripples  the  crystal  streams; 
For  often  I've  caught,  in  time  of  sleep, 
A  gorgeous  glimpse  of  this  hidden  keep, 
Away  in  the  Land  of  Dreams. 

When  Night  lets  down  her  pall  of  mist 
On  slender  cords  of  air, 


MAY  ALLONBY. 


49 


And  the  purple  shades  of  the  dying  Day 

Are  teeming  everywhere, 
While  the  drowsy  beetles  chant  their  lay 

In  the  wild  field-lily's  cells, 
And  the  solemn  voice  of  the  homeless  wind 

Along  the  highland  swells, 
I  know,  by  the  cry  of  my  soul  within, 
There's  a  place  where  they  shut  the  gates  on  sin, 
And  the  God  of  glory  dwells  ! 


MAY    ALLONBY. 

NIGHT  has  come  down  o'er  the  lone  sea, 
The  wild  wind  has  risen  to  frenzy, — 

The  spirits  of  Dread  walk  the  shore, — 
Across  the  long  stretch  of  the  quicksands, 
And  over  the  bleak,  gloomy  headlands, 

Is  heard  the  billows'  grim  roar. 

Oh,  angry  and  treacherous  ocean  ! 

Oh,  "  white-caps"  in  fiendish  commotion  ! 

Be  kind  to  the  ships  in  your  care  ! 
Be  merciful  to  the  bold  rangers, 
Who've  dared  all  your  perils  and  dangers, 

Whose  brave  hearts  never  despair  ! 

The  fisherman's  cot  on  the  Boar's  Head 

Is  light  with  the  pitch-torch's  blaze  red, 

And  it  streams  far  over  the  lee. 


MAY  ALLONBY. 

The  fisherman's  girl  lights  the  beacon, 
Her  sweet  faith  the  storm  cannot  weaken, 
Nor  the  crash  of  the  incoming  sea. 

There  are  wrecks  on  the  ocean  this  dread  night, 
Far  over  the  wave  shines  the  blue  light, 

The  minute-guns  boom  on  the  din. 
There  are  brave  hearts  in  agony  toiling ; 
But,  alas !  all  their  wild  efforts  foiling, — 

The  mad  breakers  hurry  them  in. 

Out  over  the  sands  in  the  morning 
Men  go  at  the  first  crimson  dawning, — 

Oh,  fisherman's  daughter,  bewail ! 
Thy  lover,  thy  true,  loyal  lover, 
The  pride  of  the  fair  town  of  Do*er, 

Was  lost  in  yesternight's  gale ! 

She  reads  on  the  wreck's  cast  up  timbers 
The  name  of  the  bark  she  remembers, — 

The  letters  spell — MAY  ALLONBY  ! 
For  he  named  his  taut  craft  in  her  honor. 
Oh,  how  the  grief-chills  creep  upon  her 

As  she  thinks  of  him  dead  in  the  sea ! 

The  years  have  gone  by  like  a  vision, 
But  still  in  a  fancy  Elysian 

She  wanders  the  cold  Hampton  sands, — 
Looking  out  o'er  the  lone  waste  of  billows, 
As  they  toss  up  their  foamy  white  pillows 

And  woo  her  with  phantom  white  hands ! 


SUMMER  IS   GONE. 


SUMMER    IS    GONE. 

ACROSS  the  fields  the  gleaming  gold 

Of  Autumn-time  steals  slow ; 
The  maples  flush  with  crimson  heat, 

The  sumachs  fervid  glow ; 
The  morning  airs  are  damp  and  cool, 

At  night  the  skies  are  gray ; 
The  wild-wood  silence  tells  the  tale 

That  Summer's  gone  away. 

We  miss  the  birds  that  sang  in  June, 

We  miss  the  sweet-lipped  flowers, 
We  miss  the  soft  airs  of  the  south, 

We  miss  the  long,  slow  hours. 
These  autumn  days  are  all  too  short ; 

Though  brilliant  in  decay, 
Their  very  splendor  saddens  us, 

For  Summer's  gone  away. 

The  frost-weed  blossoms  by  the  brook, 

The  nuts,  in  forest  shades, 
Drop  one  by  one ;  the  asters  pale 

Hide  in  the  woody  glades; 
The  mornings  shorten,  and  the  sun 

Falls  with  a  slanting  ray, — 
All  nature  tells  us"  mournfully, 

That  Summer's  gone  away. 


51 


5 2  A   BROKEN  DREAM. 


A    BROKEN    DREAM. 

WE  met  one  evening  just  as  sunset  kissed 
The  glowing  hills  to  blushes  burning  red, — 

One  summer  evening  when  the  sea's  gray  mist 

Hung  thick  above  the  rocks  on  Lighthouse  Head  ; 

And  warm,  soft  shades  of  amber,  flecked  with  gold, 
Played  o'er  the  sands  so  cold,  and  white,  and  dead. 

I  can  recall  e'en  now,  though  years  have  fled, 
The  very  smell  of  clover  on  the  breeze, — 

And  as  I  stand  here  breathless  and  alone, 

The  same  salt  scent  floats  to  me  from  the  seas, 

And  on  the  shore  the  waves  press  slowly  up, 
Breaking  their  hearts  in  music  on  the  lees. 

We  parted  when  the  dismal  autumn  rain 

Fringed  the  drear  hills  with  gray  and  ghostly  white, 
And  through  the  leafless  trees,  in  wordless  pain, 

The  wind  sobbed  wildly  to  the  listening  night ; 
And  at  long  intervals  the  death-pale  moon 

Showed,  through  the  clouds,  a  globe  of  sickly  light. 

We  met  and  parted.     Others  do  the  same  ; 

And  lives  are  shipwrecked  every  sunny  day. 
We  bear  the  torture, — hide  the  rending  pain, — 

And  show  the  world  our  faces  bright  and  gay ; 
And  no  one  dreams  the  worm  is  at  the  heart 

Of  the  sweet  rose  that  burst  to  bloom  in  May. 


A   BROKEN  DREAM.  53 

No  love-words  spoke  we,  for  between  our  souls 
An  icy  shadow  stood,  ghost-like  and  dim, 

More  deadly  dreadful  than  the  sea  that  rolls 
Up  the  black  headlands  when  the  tide  is  in  ! 

Keeping  our  lives  eternally  apart, — 

Oh,  fateful  Presence  !  tireless,  stern,  and  grim  ! 

Bound  to  another  !    Vows  must  not  be  broke  ! 

If  hearts  break,  let  them  !    Well,  the  world  is  wide  ; 
There  lieth  safety  in  mad  words  unspoke ; 

Let  silence  seal  the  tomb  where  Hope  has  died  ! 
The  world  would  call  it  sin  to  kiss  thy  lips, 

So  here  in  quietude  let  me  abide, — 

Here,  where  the  sea  broadens  out  blue  and  cold 
For  weary  leagues,  to  meet  the  southern  shore, 

Where  in  the  summer  sunshine's  fadeless  gold 
Life  is  to  thee  a  calm,  for  evermore  ! 

And  not  a  pale  regret  e'er  stirs  thy  heart 
For  the  brief  Indian  summer  gone  before. 

Here  let  me  stay,  hoping  the  wind  will  bear, 

As  a  sweet  augury  of  peace,  to  me, 
Some  breath  of  air  that  has  across  thee  blown 

In  that  fair  land  beyond  the  purple  sea, — 
And  that  the  low,  melodious  song  of  waves 

May  bring  my  soul  suggestions  full  of  thee  ! 


54 


CROF7EN   TOWER. 


CROFTEN    TOWER. 

I  PASS  it  oft  at  nightfall, 

And  I  think  the  sunset  gold 
Is  loath  to  touch  with  kindly  light 

That  mansion  dark  and  old  ; 
And  it  seems  as  if  the  heavens 

That  hang  above  its  roof 
Are  not  so  blue  as  other  skies, 

And  further  keep  aloof. 

The  birds  build  not  their  airy  nests 

Within  the  shadowing  trees ; 
A  dead  calm  holds  its  dreary  court 

Within  the  mouldy  leaves ; 
Wild  roses  spring  where  once  in  pride 

Rare  tropic  blossoms  grew, 
But  not  a  human  eye  is  glad 

To  meet  their  modest  hue. 

The  garden-walks  are  overgrown 

With  brambles  and  with  weeds, — 
Only  the  squirrel  or  the  jay 

On  the  rich  fruitage  feeds ; 
The  mellow  peach  and  nectarine 

Hang  ripely  from  the  bough, 
And,  all  untouched,  the  purple  grapes 

The  trellises  endow. 


CR OFTEN   TOWER. 

Death  and  decay  are  everywhere  ! 

The  mansion  once  so  gay 
Stands  lone  and  silent,  all  its  pride 

And  glory  fled  away  : 
Its  high-arched  doors,  and  windows  tall, 

Are  closed  and  locked  fore'er, — 
For  not  the  poorest  child  of  want 

Would  seek  a  dwelling  there. 

The  schoolboy  chokes  his  merry  song, 

Quickens  his  lagging  pace, 
And  glances  back  with  fearsome  eye 

At  this  deserted  place ; 
The  weary  laborer  shuns  the  path 

That  passes  by  its  door, 
And  takes  the  long  and  toilsome  track 

Across  the  distant  moor. 

I  mind  me  of  a  vanished  time, 

When  this  old  house  was  bright 
With  life  and  joy,  and  festive  mirth 

Rang  out  upon  the  night ; 
When  graceful  forms  and  faces  fair 

Brightened  the  stately  halls, 
And  lamps  of  gold  and  ormolu 

Lit  up  the  polished  walls. 

A  dark  and  haughty  man  was  he, 

The  master  of  the  tower, — 
The  people  owned  for  miles  around 

The  magic  of  his  power  ! 


55 


5 6  CR OFTEN  TOWER. 

Handsome,  and  proud,  and  arrogant, 
His  soul  self-cursed  with  scorn, — 

They  said  his  Spanish  mother  died 
The  night  her  child  was  born. 

He  wooed  and  won  a  gentle  girl, 

Pure  as  the  saints  above  ! 
She  gave  him  all  her  sweet  young  trust, 

Her  confidence  and  love  ; 
She  glorified  the  tower  awhile, 

Like  a  stray  sunlight  beam, — 
Then  pallid  grew ;  her  face  lost  light, 

Her  eye  its  happy  gleam. 

One  dreary  night,  when  tempests  roared, 

And  thunder  shrieked  in  pain, 
And  sheets  of  livid  lightning  flashed 

Their  flame-tongues  through  the  rain, — 
Red  blood  was  spilt !  a  right  to  Heaven 

One  weary  soul  had  won  ! 
But  ah  !  the  other  ?  God  be  just ! 

When  there's  a  murder  done  J- 

He  lived  unpunished ;  but  he  died 

In  torments  none  can  tell ! 
The  anguish  of  his  tortured  soul 

A  foretaste  was  of  hell. 
His  own  hand  cut  the  thread  of  life 

At  last ;  and  all  alone 
Through  the  dark  Silence  he  went  forth, 

Forth  to  the  dread  Unknown. 


THE   SONG    OF   THE  FACTORY. 

The  tower  is  left  to  solitude, — 

But  oft,  on  stormy  nights, 
The  awe-struck  people  say  the  windows 

Blaze  with  festive  lights ; 
And  sometimes  on  the  murky  air 

Rings  out  a  wailing  dirge, 
Like  the  sea's  moaning  when  it  bears 

Dead  men  upon  its  surge. 


57 


THE    SONG    OF    THE    FACTORY. 

TOIL  from  morning  till  night, 

Toil  at  the  clattering  loom  ! 
With  never  a  kindly  word  to  light 

The  blank  and  dusty  room  ! 
Work,  with  a  breaking  heart, 

And  a  weary,  bursting  brain  ! 
Work,  while  the  dried-up  tear-drops  start, 

Then  sink  to  their  bed  again, — 
Oh  !  heart,  and  head,  and  soul,  going  mad 

With  the  hunger-gnawing  pain. 

Toil  for  the  meagre  sake 

Of  cheating  Death  of  his  right ! 

Toil  lest  the  faithful  shears  of  Fate 
Sever  the  warp  of  life  ! 

Dust,  and  darkness,  and  gloom, 
Noise,  and  bustle,  and  roar  ! 
6* 


5 8  THE  SONG    OF  THE  FACTORY. 

Cobwebs  curtain  the  dusky  room, — 
Filthiness  carpets  the  floor ; 

While  all  day  long  with  the  ceaseless  toil 
My  heart  is  growing  sore. 

Blighting  ray  young  life's  morn  ! 

Hanging  its  sky  with  a  shroud, — 
Never  dare  I  think  of  a  dawn 

Unhid  in  a  dismal  cloud  ! 
Why  not  summon  up  death  ? 

What  is  life  here  below? 
What  is  a  faint  and  flickering  breath, 

To  balance  this  wearing  woe? 
Oh,  God  !  oh,  God  !  shall  I  bear  it  still  ? 

Or,  before  Thou  call'st  me,  go  ? 

Ah  !  my  sister's  pallid  face 

Is  holding  me  ever  back ! 
I  dare  not  shiver  life's  crystal  vase 

And  step  from  the  thorny  track  ! 
For  I  hear  her  moaning  cries, — 

Her  hungry  cries  for  bread, — 
And  to  death  and  rest  I  close  my  eyes, 

And  ply  my  shuttle  and  thread ; 
For  she  would  suffer,  and  die  of  want, 

Were  I  with  the  blessed  dead. 

Oh  for  one  little  hour 

Amid  the  fresh  green  grass  ! 

To  smell  the  balmy  wild  field  flower, 
And  watch  the  shadows  pass, — 


THE  SONG    OF  THE  FACTORY.  59 

Just  as  I  used  to  do 

Ere  life  a  burden  seemed, 
Ere  Hope's  star  faded  on  my  view 

And  the  hours  with  anguish  teemed  ; 
Alas  !  alas  !  of  this  pent-up  life 

My  childhood  never  dreamed  ! 

Toil  for  a  hard,  dry  crust, 

With  hand  that  never  lags, — 
Coining  my  very  soul  to  dust 

For  a  bed  of  squalid  rags ! 
For  a  shelter  over  my  head, 

A  rickety,  leaking  roof, — 
Where  the  very  swallows  with  looks  of  dread 

Keep  from  the  eaves  aloof, — 
And  the  sunbeams  hardly  deign  to  weave 

Their  golden-fingered  woof! 

Clang  !  clang  !  from  the  belfry  tall, 

'Tis  the  welcome  evening  bell ! 
Cold,  weary  hearts  leap  at  the  call, 

The  call  they  know  so  well ; 
To  rest ! — ah,  name  misgiven  ! 

Rest,  with  a  breaking  heart  ? 
There  is  no  rest  this  side  of  heaven, 

No  rest  till  the  soul  depart ! 
Oh,  who  would  live  to  suffer  and  bear 

Grim  Poverty's  bitter  smart? 

And  it's  home  to  my  scanty  fare, 

And  home  to  my  hovel  drear : — 
Oh,  will  God's  angels  ever  care 

To  hover  my  dwelling  near  ? 


60  MY  SUITORS. 

I  close  my  eyes  to  sleep, 
But  there  is  no  rest  within  ! 

I  turn  and  twist  on  my  hard  straw  heap, 
Like  a  child  of  crime  and  sin  ! — 

For  it's  ever  ringing  in  my  ears, 
The  Factory's  hateful  din  ! 


MY    SUITORS. 

I  HAVE  two  suitors  for  my  kindly  grace, — 

The  one  a  farmer's  boy,  with  hard,  brown  hands ; 
The  other  is  a  high-born  English  earl, 

With  stately  castles  on  his  wide-spread  lands. 
My  Lord  Eugene  has  a  fair  classic  face, — 

And  pearls  and  gold  lace  all  his  robes  bestrew  ; 
While  Charlie  has  an  honest  sunburnt  cheek, 

And  wears  a  private's  uniform  of  blue : 
I  do  not  think  I  ought  to  care  for  both, — 
Do  you  ? 

Both  say  they  love  me ;  both  are  very  kind ; 

Eugene  will  shield  me  from  all  care  and  strife ; 
Charlie  will  give  me  all  his  warm  true  heart, 

And  I  shall  be  a  Union  soldier's  wife. 
Eugene  will  never  leave  me, — so  he  says  ; 

But  soon  to  Charlie  I  must  say  adieu, 
And  think  of  him  upon  the  dang'rous  field, 

And  lie  awake  to  pray  the  whole  night  through  ! 
He  may  come  back  no  more, — I'll  not  be  cold, — 
Would  you? 


OUT  IN  THE   COLD.  6 1 

I  saw  Eugene  in  furious  anger  once, 

Beating  his  horse  till  every  quivering  limb 
Of  the  proud  beast  hardened  to  sinewy  steel, 

And  the  deep  eyes  flashed  lightning  back  to  him  ! 
Charlie's  white  mare  knows  not  the  coward  whip ! 

He  feeds  her  with  red  clover  wet  with  dew, — 
I  smooth  her  mane,  soft  as  Italia's  silk, 

And,  loving  her,  think  of  her  master  too ! 
I  could  not  trust  the  man  who  beats  his  horse, — 
Could  you  ? 

Welcome  !  soft  summer  night !  ablaze  with  stars  ! 

Flushed  rosy  with  the  lang'rous  smile  of  day  ! 
Welcome  !  warm  breezes  that  have  swept  through  groves 

Of  orange-trees,  around  some  southern  bay  ! 
Anchored,  my  heart's  at  rest !  a  calm  supreme 

Fills  me  with  voiceless  peace,  so  strangely  new, 
I  almost  fear  to  hold  and  make  it  mine, 

Lest  it  should  vanish  like  the  morning  dew  ! 
I  do  not  think  I  shall  regret  the  Earl, — 
Do  you? 


OUT    IN    THE    COLD. 

THE  hoarse  winds  whistle,  and  bluster  by, 
The  heavens  are  frigid  and  gray, — 

The  foam-white  river  washes  the  sands, — 
The  sea-waves  beat  in  the  bay, 

And  the  dim  sad  rain  is  drowning  the  sun, 
The  sun  at  the  noon  of  day. 


62  OUT  IN  THE    COLD. 

I  sit  in  the  firelight  crimson  and  warm, 
With  luxury  circling  me  round, 

The  soft  silk  of  India,  the  velvets  of  France, 
Fall  over  me,  sweeping  the  ground, — 

The  dropping  of  fountains  in  crystalline  cups 
Wooes  peace  with  its  musical  sound. 

But  I  shiver  and  shudder  at  every  breath 

Of  the  wind  as  it  passes  by  ! 
My  hand  reaches  out  for  one  other  hand, — 

And  my  lips  are  stifling  a  cry  ! 
A  cry  for  the  Lost, — the  idolized  Lost ! 

The  Lost  in  the  voids  of  the  sky  ! 

Out  in  the  terrible  cold  she  lies, — 

Out  in  the  pitiless  rain  ! 
Houseless  and  homeless, — she  whom  I  loved 

So  deeply  that  loving  was  pain  ! 
What  had  she  done  that  she  must  be  smitten  ? 

Oh  !  but  repinings  are  vain. 

Heaven  be  merciful !  Heaven  be  kind  ! 

While  I  am  young  I  am  old  ! 
With  weary  ponderings  over  her  fate, 

Lying  without  in  the  cold  ! — 
Lying  so  pallid, — Lost !  Lost !  Lost ! 

Out  in  the  bitter  cold  ! 


TRIFLES. 


TRIFLES. 

LITTLE  streamlet,  murmur 

On  thy  quiet  way, — • 
Down  in  lowland  meadows 

Kiss  the  crowfoot  gay; 
Refresh  the  thirsty  cattle, 

Cool  the  reaper's  brow, — 
Lave  the  hazel  bushes 

Which  the  ripe  nuts  bow, — 
All  thy  course  with  humble  gifts, 

Little  stream,  endow. 

Red-lipped,  blushing  daisy, 

Pride  will  pass  thee  by, — 
But  thy  modest  sweetness 

Draws  the  thoughtful  eye ; 
Cast  thy  fragrant  odors 

On  the  soft  south  breeze, 
Touch  the  brow  of  beauty, 

Scent  the  clover  seas, — 
Make  a  feast  of  honey 

For  the  toiling  bees. 

White  cloud,  sail  the  azure, 
'Mid  the  crystal  stars, — 

Drop  thy  graceful  shadow 
Through  the  amber  bars ; 


64  TRIFLES. 


Gather  strength  and  moisture, 
Let  the  rain  come  down 

Pearly,  pure,  and  heavenly, 
On  the  dusty  town, — 

All  the  drought-parched  country 
With  the  rich  flood  drown. 

Sweet  west  wind,  steal  softly 

Down  the  royal  heights 
In  the  drowsy  daytime, 

In  the  star-bright  nights. 
Waft  thy  balm  of  healing 

Over  lonely  moors, — 
In  at  palace  windows, 

In  at  cottage  doors  ; 
Give  the  toiling  millions 

Health  from  thy  full  stores. 

Soul,  with  nature  humble, 

Guard  thy  talent  small ; 
Stay  thy  feet  on  virtue, 

Take  heed  lest  they  fall. 
Cheer  the  sad  and  weary, — 

Lend  a  helping  hand, — 
God  loves  an  earnest  worker 

Who  heeds  the  wise  command, 
To  let  his  light  shine  broadcast 

O'er  the  gracious  land. 


MARION. 


MARION. 

SHE  passed  away, 

Like  a  fair  star  "  lost  on  the  brow  of  day  ;" 
Like  the  echo  of  laughter  sweet  and  gay, 
Like  the  perfume  which  died  out  yesterday ; 
As  evening's  silver  dissipates  day's  gold, 
As  the  sweet  music  of  a  tale  oft  told, 
As  the  red  clouds  that  round  the  mountain  fold 
Are  changed  to  gray, — 
She  passed  away. 

She  passed  away, 

Like  the  soft  sunshine  of  an  autumn  day, 
Like  the  mist-wreaths  from  off  a  sunlit  bay, 
Like  the  light  footsteps  of  a  woodland  fay ; 
As  the  bright  rainbow  spanning  the  dark  sky, 
As  thistle-down  when  stormy  winds  are  high, — 
As  the  hope-light,  born  in  a  weary  eye, 
Flees  at  grief's  stay, 
She  passed  away. 


66  THE  DRUNKARD'S    WIFE. 


THE    DRUNKARD'S    WIFE. 

LOUD  roar  the  winds,  the  cutting  ice-bolts  fall, 
The  whirling  snow  is  borne  along  the  air; 

The  dark  pine-trees  shriek  to  the  wind's  wild  call, 
And  writhe  like  conquered  giants  in  despair. 

Cold,  by  the  fireless  hearth,  a  mother  kneels, 
Clasps  to  her  breast  a  hunger-dying  child  ! 

The  life-blood  in  her  veins  with  cold  congeals. — 
Starvation  glitters  in  her  dark  eye  wild. 

"OGod!"  she  cries,— "O  God!  look  on  my  child! 

Sweet  Heaven,  have  pity  !     My  poor  darling  spare  ! 
To  die  !  to  die  !  those  lips  that  on  me  smiled  ! 

To  wither  in  the  grave-mould  this  brow  fair. 

£ 

"  Black  gloom  and  darkness  !  chillier  grows  the  night ! 

The  midnight  bell  has  tolled  !  he  is  not  here  ! 
He  lingers  o'er  the  wine-cup  red  and  bright, — 

Unmindful  that  the  morning  draweth  near. 

"  My  babe  !  how  cold  !  my  tears  freeze  on  thy  cheek, 
So  pinched  with  want,  I  turn  from  it  away ! 

Hark  !  hear  the  rushing  of  the  north  wind  bleak  ! 
No  food, — no  fire, — to  cheer  the  coming  day ! 


THE  DRUNKARD'S    WIFE.  67 

"  Oh,  loved  !  and  lost !  oh  that  he'd  turn  and  flee, — 
Flee  from  the  monster  ere  his  doom  is  fixed  ! 

Cursed  be  the  wine-cup  !  thrice  accursed  be  he 
Who  for  his  fellow-man  hath  poison  mixed  ! 

"  My  child  !  oh,  Heaven  send  pity  from  above  ! 

He  turns  upon  me  such  strange  wistful  eyes ; 
I  press  his  lips,  with  all  my  deep  strong  love, — 

Striving  to  hold  him  back  from  Paradise. 

"In  vain  !  the  angels  call !  oh,  cruel  Death  ! 

My  husband  !     Come  !  he's  dying, — he, — our  own  ! 
One  feeble  sigh, — gone  is  the  fluttering  breath  ! 

Great  God  !   'tis  o'er,  and  I  am  all  alone. 

"  My  darling  one  !  my  beautiful !  my  bright ! 

Gone  home  ere  sorrow  in  thy  breast  was  born, — 
I  follow  thee, — I  see  the  beckoning  light 

On  heavenly  shores  !  I  go  to  greet  the  Morn." 

Wild  the  cold  winds  roared  on ;  the  drifting  snow 
Wove  for  the  mother  and  her  babe  a  shroud  ; 

The  drunkard  lingered  in  the  wine's  red  glow, 
Where  on  the  air  fell  laughter  long  and  loud. 

The  eastern  heavens  blushed  with  rosiest  light, 
The  crimson  day  across  the  Orient  broke ; 

In  the  calm  land  where  faith  is  changed  to  sight, 
The  mother  and  her  angel  child  awoke. 


68  THE  MARCH  OF  LIFE. 


THE    MARCH    OF    LIFE. 

WITH  noiseless  tread  the  fleeting  years  go  by, 
And  leave  but  memories  of  their  griefs  and  joys  ; 

And  life's  gay  vanities  we  prize  so  high, 
When  looking  back,  are  valueless  as  toys. 

Oh,  lapse  of  time  !  oh,  days  forever  fled  ! 

Oh,  youth  and  gladness  passed  for  evermore  ! 
Oh,  fond,  sweet  hopes  that  lie  so  cold  and  dead, 

And  strewn  like  wrecks,  along  life's  rugged  shore  ! 

Once,  all  the  world  was  bathed  in  rosy  light, 
The  future  hid  itself  in  golden  haze, — 

Mornings  of  perfect  beauty  burst  from,  night 
And  lost  themselves  in  glow  of  heavenly  days. 

We  stood  beside  life's  sea,  and  felt  no  chill ; 
.    The  tides  leaped  up  in  music  on  the  sands ; 
We  heard  no  cries  of  lost  souls  break  the  still, — 
We  saw  no  beckoning  gleam  of  dead  white  hands. 

Ah,  well !  we  live  and  suffer  !  love  and  lose; 

Graves  of  our  dead  are  green  along  the  way ; 
And  as  we  near  the  twilight  shades  and  dews, 

We  find  it  is  December,  and  not  May. 


SUMMER.  69 

God  grant  us  Faith,  and  unto  it  we'll  cling  ! 

Faith  which  accepts  all  things  as  for  the  best ; 
Which  looks  for  death  only  to  bring  some  change, 

Some  pleasant  change,  and  trusts  Him  for  the  rest. 


SUMMER. 

SUMMER  on  the  mountains, 

Where  the  heather  blows  ; 
Summer  in  the  fountains, 

Where  the  water  flows, — 
Bend  the  clouds  in  shadow 

O'er  the  rocky  height, 
Sunshine  in  the  meadow 

With  the  clover  white ; 
All  the  earth's  a  picture, 

-Made  of  shade  and  light. 

Children  pick  the  berries 

All  along  the  leas, — 
Pluck  the  blood-red  cherries 

From  the  drooping  trees, — 
Chase  the  nimble  squirrel 

Over  hill  and  brae, 
Put  the  calm  in  peril 

With  their  laughter  gay  ; 
Scatter  wide  the  clover  smell 

From  the  new-mown  hay. 
7* 


THE  PAST. 

At  the  hush  of  even, 

Glow  the  silver  stars, 
Through  the  purple  heaven's 

Soft  empyrean  bars ; 
On  the  shore  the  billows 

Break  their  melodies, 
While  the  snow-winged  vessels 

Shiver  in  the  breeze, — 
God  !  thy  living  Spirit 

Stands  upon  the  seas. 


THE    PAST. 

THE  Past !  I  would  not  make  it  dead  ! 

Its  glories  I  would  keep, 
Though  they  be  like  the  empty  dreams 

That  haunt  me  in  my  sleep. 
I  would  not  have  the  splendor  fade 

That  gleams  across  lost  days, 
Like  the  red  brilliance  of  the  light 

Left  on  the  sunset  ways. 

I  would  not  pluck  the  lotus  leaf, 

Though  it  might  heal  the  pain 
That  thrills  me,  often,  when  I  touch 

Some  link  in  Memory's  chain; 
Nor  would  I  dip  in  Lethean  wave, 

Though  it  were  crystal  clear, — 
It  might  destroy  some  tender  thought 

That  makes  me  quiet  here. 


LOOKING   BEYOND. 

The  sharp  experience  that  Time  gives, 

We  greatly  profit  by ; 
'Tis  well  to  keep  remembrances 

Of  all  our  errors  nigh, — 
Perhaps  'twill  help  us  to  forgive 

The  wrongs  that  others  do, 
To  bear  in  mind,  while  blaming  them, 

That  we  are  guilty  too. 

And  then,  there  are  such  pleasant  things 

Connected  with  the  Past, 
That  o'er  the  whole  of  life's  rough  track 

A  glow  of  light  they  cast ! 
Touches,  and  tones,  and  tender  thrills, 

Caresses  lost  fore'er; 
But  still  they  give  suggestions  dim 

Of  what  might  have  been  here. 


LOOKING    BEYOND. 

WHAT  is  there  in  the  summer  air  to-night 
That  minds  me  of  a  sweet  day  long  o'erpast? 

What  is  there  in  this  waning  mellow  light 

That  brings  old  memories  to  me  thick  and  fast  ? 

Is  it  the  scent  of  purple  heliotrope, 

That  steals  up  to  me  from  the  garden-bed  ? 

Or  the  white  clover  on  the  meadow  slope  ? 

Or  the  lush  strawberries  glowing  ripe  and  red  ? 


72 


LOOKING  BEYOND. 


Oh,  Life  !  oh,  Death  !  oh,  mystic  veil  of  sense, 
That  stretches  'tween  this  world  and  that  to  come  ! 

Will  that  life  be  sufficient  recompense 
For  what  we  suffer  here  in  silence  dumb  ? 

Our  deepest  sorrows  never  can  be  told  ! 

Our  ghastliest  wounds  we  cover  up  from  sight  ! 
The  griefs  that  make  our  youthful  brows  grow  old 

Are  those  we  hide  in  silence  and  in  night. 

I  wonder  if  the  dead  have  hope,  or  thought, 

For  us  who  sorrow  on  in  mortal  clay ! 
I  wonder  if  their  heavenly  lives  have  brought 

Them  so  much  joy,  they  never  look  away — 

Away  to  earth  !  where  those  they  loved  are  still 
Breasting  the  stormy  waves  of  adverse  fate, 

Looking,  with  eyes  so  mutely  pitiful, 
For  the  unfolding  of  the  golden  gate. 

I  grow  so  weary,  sometimes,  it  would  be 
Sweet  as  a  mother's  kiss  upon  my  brow, 

To  know  that  those  who've  crossed  the  Unknown  Sea, 
Those  whom  I  loved,  have  pity  for  me  now; 

To  know  that  when  I  sorrow  they  look  down 

With  tender  eyes  from  Immortality, — 
To  know  that  those  who  wear  a  fadeless  crown 

In  heaven's  glory,  still  have  care  for  me. 


HUMILITY. 


73 


HUMILITY. 

THERE  is  a  little  river       v 

Down  below  the  meadow-land, 

Where  the  ripples  beat  in  music 
On  the  snowy,  pebbled  sand, 

And  the  foam  from  tiny  rapids 
Glistens  like  a  spirit  hand. 

There  are  no  wondrous  cataracts 

To  win  a  nation's  gaze, 
No  cruel,  treacherous  eddies, 

No  wild  and  devious  ways ; 
But  the  sweet  river  waters  fields, 

And  gladdens  lonely  braes. 

There  frowns  not  on  its  borders 

The  castle  of  a  king ; 
But  down  in  shady  valleys, 

Where  bells  of  cattle  ring, 
They  say  the  little  river 

Is  a  kind  and  blessed  thing. 

No  hoary,  stately  cypresses, 

Crowned  with  clinging  mistletoe, 

Lean  o'er  the  quiet  waters, 
Or  are  mirrored  in  their  flow ; 

And  yet  the  river's  power  is  felt 
In  ocean's  undertow. 


74  MY  LITTLE   LADY  IN  BLUE. 

And  a  single  word  of  kindness, 
Spoken  to  a  heart  that's  cold, 

May  be  priceless  as  the  jewels 
Which  princes  wore  of  old  ! 

For  a  little  smile  of  charity 
Is  better  than  fine  gold. 


MY    LITTLE    LADY    IN    BLUE. 

MY  Little  Lady  in  Blue  ! 

I  follow  her  down  the  street, 
And  look  in  the  sand  for  the  dainty  print, 

The  winsome  print  of  her  feet, — 
Feet  so  charmingly,  cunningly  fleet, — 

Gaiters  but  number  two  ! 
My  heart  leaps  up  at  sound  of  her  step, 

And  beats  a  noisy  tattoo  ! 
Airiest,  fairest,  sweetest,  and  best ! 

My  Little  Lady  in  Blue. 

Cheeks  like  the  roses  of  Spain  ! 

Hair  in  ringlets  of  gold, — 
Tossing  and  waving  at  every  step, 

Billows  of  sunlight  unrolled  ! 
Hands  like  the  fluttering  leaf  of  a  lily, 

Graceful,  stainless  in  hue, 
White,  aristocratic,  small  hands, 

Shared  by  the  favored  few  ! 
Never  were  hands,  in  all  the  wide  world, 

Like  those  of  My  Lady  in  Blue  ! 


IN  THE  SNOW. 

Singing  birds,  in  the  trees, 

Chant  their  merriest  song 
When  this  little  witch  of  a  girl 

Comes  lightly  tripping  along  ! 
Would  I  were  the  balmy  west  wind  ! 

I'd  sail  the  purple  voids  through, 
And  rest  in  the  shadow  made  by  her  curls, 

And  taste  of  her  crimson  lips'  dew ; 
And  the  envying  world  should  look  on  me 

And  My  Little  Lady  in  Blue  ! 


75 


IN    THE    SNOW. 

SILENT  the  world  lies  'neath  a  steel-blue  sky; 

The  winds  are  still  in  the  old  creaking  pines, — 
The  oak-tree  lifts  its  brawny  arms  on  high, 

Crowned   and  festooned  by  cream-white  flowering 
vines. 

The  English  poplar  stands  up  grim  and  brown, 

A  patriarchal  giant  bravely  bold, 
With  long  white  hair,  and  royal  ermine  gown, 

Like  some  Lord  Magistrate  in  times  of  old. 

The  gate-posts,  tipped  and  plumed  like  grenadiers, 
Stand  sentinels  in  silence  stern  and  grave ; 

The  knotted  well-sweep  its  gaunt  length  uprears, 
Chiselled,  and  carved,  a  marble  architrave. 


76  IN   THE  SNOW. 

The  well  is  lost, — the  road  is  blotted  out ; 

Waist-high,  the  drifts  shut  in  the  farm-house  door; 
The  brushy  woodpile  has  been  put  to  rout, 

Subdued  and  shrouded,  it  is  seen  no  more. 

/ 

Crystal  stalactites  hang  from  all  the  eaves, 
The  clapboard  nails  rejoice  in  silver  tips ; 

Curtains  of  lace,  with  pearl-embroidered  leaves, 
Wrap  all  the  windows  in  their  pale  eclipse. 

Twigs  that  were  only  poor  sticks  yesterday 
To-night's  magician  into  pearls  has  turned ; 

The  spruces  wear  the  soft  robes  of  a  fay, 

The  pines  a  right  to  diamond  sprays  have  earned. 

The  grape-vine  arbor  boasts  its  ivory  bars ; 

The  trellises  with  icy  cones  are  bright ; 
The  hawthorn  hedge  is  flecked  with  glittering  stars, 

And  all  the  garden's  stately  flowers  are  white. 

The  brook  has  closed  its  song  and  gone  to  sleep 

Beneath  its  coverlet  of  fleecy  white ; 
The  smothered  river,  rolling  dark  and  deep, 

Is  mute  and  silent  as  the  dumb-mouthed  Night.     - 

There  is  a  hush  o'er  all  things  that  we  view; 

A  dead  white  silence  rests  on  all  below ; 
The  pale  moon  slowly  sails  the  dark  clouds  through,— 

Below,  the  earth  is  buried  in  the  snow. 


DEAD   AND  ALIVE. 


77 


DEAD    AND    ALIVE. 

THERE'S  a  vague  and  terrible  something,  to-night, 

Abroad  in  the  depths  of  the  air, — 
Its  ghost-like  breath  is  cold  on  my  face, 

Its  fingers  are  cold  in  my  hair ; 
I  stand  on  the  headland  barren  and  bleak, 

And  strain  my  eyes  through  the  dark, 
And  I  see  but  the  surges  toss  wearily  up 

And  break  on  the  pebble-strewn  arc, — 
The  arc  of  the  cape,  where  the  lighthouse  gleams, 

A  blood-red,  tremulous  spark. 

What  do  I  look  for,  coming  to  me, — 

To  me,  from  the  waste  of  the  seas  ? 
Orient  gems,  sweet-smelling  spices,  and  silks, 

Breast-high  in  the  slow  argosies  ? 
What  are  jewels  and  odors  to  me, — 

A  regnant  queen  in  my  pride  ? 
What  do  I  care  if  the  merchant-ships 

Are  tossed  on  the  treacherous  tide  ? 
They  are  not  with  my  fortune,  or  with  my  thoughts, 

By  the  frailest  tenure  allied. 

I  wonder — I'm  full  of  wonder,  to-night  — 

If  the  mist  that  is  rolling  down 
Would  choke  the  mortal  cries  of  a  soul, — 

A  soul  that  the  ocean  would  drown  ? 


DEAD  AND  ALIVE. 

I  wonder  if  men,  when  they  struggle  for  life 

In  the  sinuous  arms  of  the  sea, 
Have  leisure  to  think  while  sinking  down,  down, 

To  think  of  the  fearful  To-Be'? 
I  wonder  if  he,  should  he  perish  to-night, 

Would  cast  back  a  thought  after  me  ? 

Through  the  rain,  and  the  spoon-drift,  I  fancy  I  see 

The  ghastly  white  form  of  a  ship, — 
I  hear  the  strain  of  the  cordage  aloft, 

And  the  cutwater's  laboring  clip, — 
Only  a  moment, — the  vision  is  gone ; 

I  hear  but  the  wind  sweep  the  shore, 
And  see  but  the  death-cold  gray  of  the  fog, 

And  the  billows  toss  up  as  before ; 
But  the  cry  of  a  drowning,  agonized  soul 

Will  ring  in  my  ears  evermore  ! 

I  know  it !  I  feel  it  here  in  my  breast ! 

Gone  down  in  the  horrible  deep  ! 
Uncoffined,  unknelled, — no  kiss  on  his  lips 

To  reconcile  him  to  his  sleep  ! 
To  lie  in  unquiet  for  ages  to  come, 

While  I  must  exist  as  I  be  ! 
Be  pitiful  of  me,  sweet  saints  in  Heaven, 

Death  in  life  compasses  me  ! 
My  Thought  and  my  Breath  walk  lonesomely  here, 

And  my  Heart  lies  buried  at  sea. 


STARS   OF  NIGHT. 


79 


STARS    OF    NIGHT. 

THE  shades  have  come,  they  rest  on  wood  and  field, 
The  day  is  gone,  and  vanished  is  the  light ; 

The  purple  skies  a  faint,  soft  splendor  yield, 
Illumined  by  the  glowing  stars  of  night. 

In  the  dim  gray  of  evening  it  is  sweet 

To  wander  o'er  the  fields,  with  dew-drops  bright, 
Lingering  along  where  leap  the  brook's  lithe  feet, 

Gazing  upon  the  glorious  stars  of  night. - 

Come,  Night !  I  love  thy  quiet,  hallowed  still ! 

There  is  no  gloom  in  thy  dark  wings  to  me ; 
Grandeur  and  awe.  my  soul  can  drink  its  fill 

Of  thy  majestic,  vast  sublimity. 

Roll  on,  fair  stars,  in  beauty  grand,  sublime, 

Your  matchless  forms  half  hid  from  mortal  sight ! 

Singing  fore'er  those  unheard,  heavenly  chimes 
Which  reach  to  God  !  ye  glorious  stars  of  night. 


80  IT  COMETH. 


IT    COMETH. 

IT  cometh  !  the  day  after  night-time, 

The  sunshine  after  the  rain, 
The  golden  sky  after  a  tempest, 

Happiness  after  sharp  pain  : 
Then  lift  up  thy  head,  silly  weeper, 

And  take  up  thy  burden  again. 

There's  a  hope-star  gleaming  and  glowing, 

Though  hid  in  a  vapory  mist ; 
There's  a  beautiful  pinnacled  city 

Away  in  the  blue  amethyst; 
And  the  mountains  burst  out  of  shadow 

When  their  brows  by  sunshine  are  kissed. 

Men  level  the  oak  of  the  forest, 
But  the  roots  remain  in  the  earth, 

They  clamor  for  newer  existence, 
And  spring  to  strong  second  birth ; 

And  'tis  thus  with  a  fortune-crushed  mortal, 
Whose  soul  has  the  true  royal  worth. 

The  best  steel  has  most  refining, 

Gold  is  assayed  by  hot  fire ; 
And  the  heart  is  oft  tried  by  the  wrecking 

Of  passion,  and  hope,  and  desire; 
But  the  wind  which  will  conquer  a  sparrow 

But  makes  an  eagle  soar  higher. 


.  MY  LOVE.  81 

Then  cast  off  the  fetters  of  fortune, 

Nor  bow  to  fate's  autocrat  nod  ! 
And  scorn  to  walk  tamely  the  pathway 

A  craven-souled  million  have  trod: 
Be  worthy  thy  glorious  destiny, 

Man,  made  in  the  image  of  God  ! 


MY    LOVE. 

THOU  hast  a  lone,  dark  corner  in  my  heart, 

To  me  unknown  ! 
I've  never  dared  to  fathom  the  dim  depth, 

Lest  it  be  stone ; 
And  yet,  I  know,  my  soul's  most  sacred  thoughts 

Live  there  alone. 

I  know  not  if  I'd  love  thy  clasping  arm, 

Or  thy  lips'  kiss, — 
I  never  linger  near  to  catch  thy  smile, 

Lest  it  be  bliss ; 
And  would  I  risk  to  drink  of  perfect  joy 

In  world  like  this  ? 

Often,  at  midnight,  a  wild  longing  comes 

And  seizes  me ; 
Fervid,  intense,  and  strong,  it  folds  me  round, 

And  then  I  long  to  be 
In  some  unpeopled,  trackless  desert  waste, 

Alone  fore'er  with  THEE. 


82  BROTHER  AND   SISTER. 


BROTHER    AND    SISTER. 

HE  sat  on  the  lofty  highlands, 

Or  climbed  to  the  eagle's  nest ; 
Wore  the  mountain  rose  in  his  helmet, 

The  chamois  skin  on  his  breast ; 
He  laughed  at  the  vivid  lightning, 

Shrank  not  at  the  thunder's  roar ; 
And  his  dark  eye  flashed  when  the  wild  sea-waves 

Burst  on  the  frightened  shore. 

She  was  a  meek-eyed  woman  ; 

She  lingered  in  lowly  vales, 
And  gathered  the  dew-wet  daisies 

That  grew  in  the  sunny  dales ; 
She  trembled  when  raged  the  tempest, 

And  paled  at  the  angry  sea; 
For  her  soul  was  attuned  to  the  low,  soft  strains 

Of  Love's  sweet  melody. 

He  fought  for  the  love  of  conquest, 

Was  first  in  the  battle's  brunt ; 
He  bore  down  the  mail-clad  warriors, 

Like  deer  in  the  forest  hunt ; 
And  they  crowned  his  brow  with  laurel, 

Thundered  his  fame  to  the  world, 
And  wrote  his  name,  in  letters  of  fire, 

On  the  flag  his  valor  unfurled. 


BROTHER  AND   SISTER.  83 

Her  life  was  a  calm,  flowing  river, 

Going  ever  pleasantly  on  ; 
Her  world  was  the  cottage,  and  meadow, 

Walled  in  by  the  blue  horizon ; 
She  soothed  every  heart  that  was  weary, 

And  kissed  off  the  tears  of  the  sad, — 
Oh,  many  a  spirit  that  good  woman  made 

Rise  up  from  grief  and  be  glad. 

He  died,  as  dieth  the  hero, 

Unflinching,  fearless,  and  brave  ! 
Defying  the  waiting  death-angel, 

Defying  the  deep  hungry  grave  ! 
She  died,  as  the  soft  summer  sunset 

Goes  out  o'er  the  hills  of  the  west, 
Put  her  hands  in  the  hands  of  her  Saviour, 

And  leaned  her  head  on  His  breast. 

Oh,  who,  in  the  time  that  approacheth, 

Shall  mete  out  to  each  the  reward  ? 
Which  one  has  done  best  with  the  talents 

Vouchsafed  by  the  hand  of  the  Lord  ? 
Will  he  wear  the  crown  of  the  conqueror? 

Will  her  brow  be  bound  with  joy's  glow  ? 
Will  he,  or  she,  gain  the  true  happiness  ? 

Ah  !  who  that  is  mortal  may  know? 


84  THE    OLD  BARN. 


THE    OLD    BARN.    ' 

RICKETY,  old,  and  crazy, 

Shingleless,  lacking  some  doors ; 
Bad  in  the  upper  story, 

Wanting  boards  in  the  floors  ; 
Cobwebs  over  the  rafters, 

Ridge-pole  rotten  and  gray, 
Hanging  in  helpless  impotence 

Over  the  mows  of  hay. 

Oh,  how  I  loved  the  shadows 

That  clung  to  the  silent  roof ! 
Day-dreams  wove  with  the  quiet 

Many  a  glittering  woof! 
I  climbed  to  the  highest  cross-beam, 

Watched  the  swallows  at  play, . 
Admired  the  knots  in  the  boarding, 

And  rolled  in  billows  of  hay. 

Roughly  the  winds  tore  round  it, 

Winds  of  a  stormy  day, — 
Scattering  the  fragrant  hay-seed, 

Whirling  the  straws  away  ! 
Streaming  in  at  the  crannies, 

Spreading  the  clover  smell, 
Changing  that  dark  old  granary 

Into  a  flowery  dell. 


EARL  Y  FANCIES. 


EARLY    FANCIES. 

A  LITTLE  child  I  loved  the  night, 

The  purple  twilight  sky, — 
The  yellow  moon  hung  like  a  lamp 

Up  in  the  arched  dome  high ; 
And  when  June's  sunshine  kissed  the  hills, 

Played  on  the  clover  slopes, 
I  said  the  stars  were  coming  down 

To  earth  on  silver  ropes. 

In  the  lone  autumn  of  the  year, 

I  watched  through  window  bars 
The  last  faint  crimson  fade  away 

Before  the  brightening  stars ; 
And  then  I  feared  the  angels'  cheeks 

Were  paling  at  some  grief; 
I  thought,  perhaps  they,  too,  bemoaned 

The  "  sere  and  yellow  leaf." 

Winter  came  on,  with  glory  nights 

Df  Northern  skies  aflame: 
My  childish  heart  was  awed  by  these, 

And  trembled  at  their  name  ! 
For  then,  I  thought,  the  great,  good  God, 

From  His  bright  home  on  high, 
Was  angry  at  my  many  sins, 

So  burnt  the  midnight  sky. 


86  FALSE. 

But  lovely  spring-time,  dressed  in  flowers, 

Blushed  o'er  the  happy  earth ; 
My  soul  arose  !  my  spirit  woke 

To  a  thrice  nobler  birth ! 
When  I  looked  up  to  the  mild  skies, 

I  deemed  myself  forgiven, 
And  through  the  mist  I  almost  saw 

The  pearly  gates  of  Heaven. 


FALSE. 

I  MET  him  yesterday,  down  by  the  sea, 

Stood  for  a  moment  with  his  hand  on  mine ; 

Heard  once  again  his  soft  voice  speak  to  me, 

And  the  hot  blood  fired  up  my  cheeks  like  wine, — 

In  memory  I  went  back  to  that  sweet  time 
When  life  was  all  divine  ! 

Once,  when  I  met  him,  through  his  deep,  dark  eyes 
Shone  out  the  brilliance  of  a  tender  glow, — 

Lighting  his  face  as  sunset  lights  the  skies 
When  its  encrimsoned  glories  ebb  and  flow ! 

Last  night  his  eyes  were  steel,  so  hard  and  dense, 
His  smile  was  frozen  snow. 

We  dwell  apart, — our  paths  are  severed  wide  ; 
We  hold  no  more  those  precious  twilight  talks, 


FALSE.  87 

When  in  love's  perfectness,  close,  side  by  side, 

We  wandered  down  the  labyrinthine  walks 
Of  those  old  woods,  where  now  the  lonesome  wind 
In  gloomy  grandeur  stalks. 

Once,  I  loved  moonlight ;  loved  those  still  Fall  nights, 
When  radiant  amber  filled  the  atmosphere, — 

When  the  arched  sky  burned  red  with  Northern  Lights, 
And  earth  seemed  listening  with  a  half-fledged  fear. 

I  loved  all  things  because  I  worshiped  him, 
And  he  was  ever  near. 

Now,  I  shut  out  all  pleasant  sights,  and  close, 

With  firm  cold  hands,  my  curtains  'gainst  the  stars; 

And  bar  my  windows,  lest  my  stern  repose 

Be  stirred  by  sound  of  love-songs  and  guitars; — 

Would  that  I  had  the  power  to  close  my  heart 
With  treble  bolts  and  bars  ! 

I  know  him  false  !  I  scorn  him  !  so  I  say  ; 

I  would  not  look  upon  his  face  again  ! 
With  me  all  love  and  trust  have  had  their  day, 

I've  done  with  sweet  young  faith  and  hope;  but  then, 
He  whom  a  woman  once  has  loved  can  never  be, 
To  her,  like  other  men. 


88  FROM  NATURE    UNTO    GOD. 


FROM    NATURE    UNTO    GOD. 

THE  wind  that  sweeps  the  fragrant  waste 

Of  billowy  clover  seas, 
And  breathes  its  mystic  music  through 

The  greenery  of  the  trees  ; 
The  summer  sun  that  drops  its  gold 

On  hill  and  plain  and  sea, 
The  cooling  shadows  as  they  pass 

So  still  and  noiselessly, — 
All  these  familiar  sights  and  sounds 

Are  beautiful  to  me. 

The  far  blue  hills  that  in  the  haze 

Of  distance  fade  away, 
The  fleecy  white  clouds,  mountain-born, 

That  love  at  home  to  stay  ; 
The  stretch  of  mellow  purple  sky 

Arching  in  peace  o'er  all, — 
Building  between  the  earth  and  heaven 

A  thin  dividing  wall, — 
So  thin  that  God  can  hear  our  prayers 

And  answer  when  we  call : 

All  these  delightful  things  I  love, 

Of  earth,  and  sky,  and  air ; 
They  fill  my  soul  with  images 

Of  light  divinely  fair  ! 


SOMETHING  LOST.  89 

If  such  is  earth  beneath  the  curse 

Of  lust,  and  pride,  and  sin, 
Earth  where  the  threatening  power  of  death 

Throughout  all  time  has  been, — 
What  must  be  heaven,  where  naught  of  this 

Can  ever  enter  in  ? 

In  all  these  gracious  works  I  see 

God's  mercy  and  His  care  ; 
The  world  holds  no  place  so  remote 

His  love  cannot  reach  there. 
I  cannot  stray  so  far  away 

Prayer  will  not  find  His  e.ar; 
In  every  place  I  know  and  feel 

His  strengthening  Presence  near ; 
And  if  He  loves  and  cares  for  me, 

What  cause  have  I  for  fear  ? 


SOMETHING    LOST. 

WHAT  is  it  that  I  miss  these  long  drear  nights, 

When  the  bleak  winds  against  my  casement  blow, 
And  o'er  the  grim,  gaunt  outline  of  the  heights 

Comes  down  the  ghostly  mistiness  of  snow  ? 
I  do  not  dread  the  wind  ;  I'm  sheltered  warm ; 

Before  me  roars  the  fire,  the  lamp  burns  clear ; 
What  is  there  in  this  cruel  winter  storm 

To  mind  me  of  that  sweet,  long- vanished  year? 
When  life  was  young,  and  all  the  world 
Was  dear  ? 


9° 


AFTER    THE   RAIN. 


Backward  in  thought  I  go ;  the  windows  shriek, 

And  down  the  chimney  roars  the  frenzied  blast ! 
I  hold  my  breath, — is  it  a  dead  voice  speaks 

From  out  the  sacred  silence  of  the  Past? 
The  gate  swings  back  and  forth,  I  hear  it  grate, 

Its  iron  hinges  hoarse  with  age  and  rust ; 
How  often  there  I've  paused,  to  watch,  and  wait, 

The  sound  of  feet  that  lie  within  the  dust ! 
So  long  ago,  when  I  took  all  things  bright 
In  trust  ! 

The  mad  winds  bellow  like  the  ocean  waves, 

Through  the  great  elm-trees  just  across  the  street : 
Why  does  the  sound  bring  to  me  thoughts  of  graves 

On  bleak,  bare  moorlands,  where  the  cold  storms 

beat? 
I  lift  the  curtains,  and  peer  through  the  gloom, — 

A  grim,  gray  waste  of  country, — nothing  more  ! 
My  soul  is  prisoned  in  this  mortal  tomb, 

It  chafes  and  frets  like  waves  on  a  lee  shore  ! 
Why  is  it  that  our  yearnings  reach  so  strong  for  what 
Comes  nevermore  ? 


AFTER    THE    RAIN. 

THE  sable  clouds  break  into  light, 
To  let  the  sunshine  through; 

Above  the  ridge  of  western  hills 
There  is  a  belt  of  blue, 


AFTER    THE   RAIN. 

And  through  the  fleecy  veil  of  mist 
The  sun  bursts  into  view. 

The  wide  fields  stretch  toward  the  sea, 
Fragrant  with  clover  scent; 

The  lilacs  and  the  appleblooms 
In  one  sweet  mass  are  blent, 

And  in  the  east  a  bow  of  Hope 
Climbs  toward  the  firmament. 

The  brooks  leap  down  the  rocky  steeps, 
White  as  the  winter  snow, — 

Their  dreamy  voices  singing  us 
Airs  of  the  long  ago  ; 

And  blood-red  on  the  garden  wall 
The  damask  roses  glow. 

Upon  the  elm-tree  by  the  well, 
The  robin  calls  his  mate, — 

Who  with  her  swelling  amber  breast 
Coquettes  upon  the  gate  : 

Poor  little  robin  !  he,  like  us, 
Must  be  content  to  wait. 

Below  the  meadows  in  the  grove, 

The  sweetly  subtle  still 
Is  broken  by  the  plaintive  voice 

Of  a  lone  whip-poor-will ; 
And  harshly  sounds  from  up  the  stream 

The  whistle  of  the  mill. 

The  air  is  soft,  and  bland,  and  moist, 
Coming  from  some  south  shore, — 


92 


NEARER. 


It  scatters  diamonds  from  the  trees, 
Such  as  queens  never  wore  ; 

And  stealing  softly  comes  the  night ! — 
Night !  and  the  rain  is  o'er. 


NEARER. 

ONE  sweet  and  precious  thought 

Comes  to  me  every  night, 
When  dying  day  flushes  the  west 

With  blood-red  gleams  of  light ; 
I'm  nearer  to  the  perfect  life, 

Nearer  the  great  To-Be, — 
Nearer  the  night  when  peace  shall  come  ! 

Nearer,  my  love,  to  thee  ! 

The  winter's  cruel  cold 

Sweeps  o'er  thy  graveyard  bed  ; 
The  white  snow  hovers  tenderly 

O'er  thy  unconscious  head  ; 
But  peace  and  calm  drop  on  my  heart 

With  each  declining  sun, 
For  then,  I  think,  'twill  not  be  long 

Before  we  shall  be  one. 

Through  toil  of  hand  and  brain, 

And  heaviness  of  heart, — 
Through  all  these  long-drawn  years 

Since  we  have  been  apart, — 


MOONRISE. 

At  each  pale  twilight's  fall 
Along  the  woodlands  dim, 

Some  spirit-voice  has  whispered  me, 
"A  day's  length  nearer  him  !" 

Oh,  Loved  !  and  Lost !  I  wait, 

And  dream  of  the  To-Come  ! 
In  faith  I'm  trusting  Death  to  bring 

Me  to  my  one  dear  home. 
And  in  the  golden  glow 

Upon  that  summer  shore, 
We  shall  clasp  hands,  to  live  and  love 

Through  all  Forevermore. 


93 


MOONRISE. 

A  HALO  crowns  the  purple  hills, 

The  heaven  in  slumberous  light  distils, 

Nature  is  still,  a  holy  calm 

On  pulseless  wings  drops  down  its  balm. 

On  azure  seas  cloud-vessels  sail, 
Their  white  wings  flushed  with  roses  pale ; 
And  on  the  star-gemmed  eastern  heights 
The  night  her  bridal  taper  lights. 

The  whip-poor-will  in  ancient^  trees 
Chants  low  his  sacred  melodies, 
And  from  the  swell  of  green  uplands 
The  west  wind  utters  its  commands. 

r>* 


94 


IN  RUIN. 

The  lake's  soft  breast  of  waveless  glass 
Is  kissed  by  shadows  as  they  pass ; 
The  great  hills  lift  their  regal  brows, 
Like  priests  at  vespers  making  vows. 

The  Orient  bright  and  brighter  burns, 
The  primrose  tint  to  crimson  turns ; 
A  flash  of  silver,  touched  with  gold, 
Leaps  up  the  sky-steeps,  fold  on  fold. 

And,  lo  !  in  state,  like  throned  queen, 
Through  sable  distance  swims  serene 
The  royal  moon,  while  in  their  cars 
Of  gold  ride  on  the  glittering  stars. 


IN    RUIN. 

IT  stands  there  on  the  green  hillside, 
Covered  with  roses  like  a  bride ; 
And  round  its  chimneys  tall  elm-trees 
Whisper  their  vows,  and  shake  their  leaves, - 
A  low  brown  house,  with  windows  tall, 
And  gables  where  quaint  shadows  fall. 

The  lily  blooms,  and  mottled  pinks 
Crowd  round  the  ruined  fountain's  brinks, 
Kissing  decay  with  crimson  lips, — 
Putting  the  gloom  in  gay  eclipse ; 
But  no  fair  hands  of  happy  girls 
Gather  the  flowers  to  deck  their  curls. 


A   MEMORY  OF   WINTER. 

I  cross  the  sill,  and  sit  me  down 
Upon  the  doorstep  bare  and  brown  ; 
I  call  aloud, — a  gentle  word, — 
Name  of  a  sweet-voiced  singing-bird  : 
Where  dwells  she  now?     What  regions  hold 
Her,  with  her  hair  of  living  gold? 

I  call,  and  listen  ;  empty  sounds, 
From  empty  halls  and  empty  grounds, 
Grate  on  the  air,  and  fright  the  ears 
Like  tones  the  pale  death-watcher  hears, 
And  the  red  robin,  with  a  cry, 
Flies  startled  up  against  the  sky. 

Three  tombstones  out  'neath  yonder  tree, — 
One  coral  grave  deep  in  the  sea, — 
A  nameless  mound  in  Indian  lands  ! 
Oh,  sleep  of  heart !  oh,  rest  of  hands  ! 
Oh,  winter's  rest,  where  Death  is  king, 
Waiting  the  resurrection  Spring  ! 


95 


A    MEMORY    OF    WINTER. 

ALL  day,  in  flakes  of  saintly  white, 
The  snow  fell  down  ; 

Wrapping  in  ermine  folds  the  height 
Above  the  town ; 

Hanging  each  patient  hemlock-tree 
With  bridal  veils ; 


9 6  A   MEMORY  OF   WINTER. 

Changing  the  forest  to  a  sea 

Flecked  with  white  sails. 


Over  each  savage,  black-browed  rock, 

Climb  crystal  flowers, — 
Wild  lily-cup,  and  holly-hock, 

From  winter's  bowers; 
And  on  the  hillside,  by  the  spring, 

Rise  pillared  fanes, 
Gorgeous  enough  for  reigning  king 

And  all  his  thanes. 

A  silence  steals  upon  the  earth ; 

The  snow-mists  flee ; 
The  winds  wake  unto  stronger  birth 

Their  minstrelsy ; 
Their  organ  bass  on  high  they  shriek 

Through  the  cold  sky, 
Rending  the  dismal  silence  bleak 

With  their  wild  cry. 

Forth  from  their  prisons  peep  the  stars, 

Like  frightened  girls 
When  battle-smoke  round  brave  hussars 

Its  red  fog  curls ; 
And  wildly  on  the  sky's  broad  plain 

The  cloud-forms  reel, 
Like  men  when  cannon's  deadly  rain 

Breaks  coats  of  steel. 

Eastward  the  troop  of  gloom-black  clouds 
Take  up  their  march  ; 


A   MEMORY  OF   WINTER.  97 

Seeming  like  dismal  funeral  shrouds 

On  heaven's  arch ; 
Building  above  the  shuddering  world 

A  cenotaph, 
Writing  on  scroll  of  blue  unfurled 

God's  autograph. 

Cold,  cold  the  icy  wind  comes  down 

From  Northern  moors, 
Frightening  the  stray  birds  feathered  brown, — 

Hark  !  how  it  roars  ! 
Tumbling  the  restless,  feathery  snow 

To  swelling  hills ; 
Filling  the  air  with  frosty  glow 

And  frozen  chills. 

The  moonlight  silent  as  the  dead,- 

And  ghostly  white, 
Sinks  down  through  weird  and  frosty  void, 

Down,  in  the  night, 
Dropping  upon  the  river's  breast 

A  mail  of  pearl, 
On  each  still  wave  a  diamond  crest 

Fit  for  an  earl. 

The  mountarin  cliffs  crash  wide  apart, 

With  deafening  sound ; 
And  up  the  answering  echoes  start 

From  all  around ; 
The  fierce  winds  with  their  bellowings  strive, 

Making  high  boasts, 
Until  the  whole  earth  seems  alive 

With  noisy  ghosts. 


98  TWO   SEASONS   OF  LIFE. 

The  regal  Night  tramps  grandly  on, 

The  still  stars  flame  ; 
And  high  in  heaven  the  cold,  calm  moon 

Shines  on,  the  same ; 
Pallid  and  white  the  great  earth  lies, — 

A  conquered  thing, — 
Submissive  to  the  stern  decrees 

Of  Winter-King. 


TWO    SEASONS    OF    LIFE. 

WE  were  children  together,  he  and  I : 
Oh,  beautiful  morning !  oh,  rare,  sweet  sky  ! 
We  roamed  together  through  wood  and  field, 
We  drank  the  honey  the  wild  bees  yield  ; 
We  crushed  the  buttercup  under  our  tread, 
And  its  gold  dust  gilded  the  daisy's  bed  ; 
We  sat  through  sunsets  rich  and  rare, 
With  our  faces  lifted,  our  brown  heads  bare, 
To  catch  the  glory  that  rippled  down 
Over  the  meadow,  and  river,  and  town. 

We  watched  the  Tuscany  roses  bloom  ; 

We  breathed  the  hyacinth's  faint  perfume; 

We  trampled  the  clover  so  lush  and  sweet, 

To  find  where  the  strawberries  hid  from  the  heat ; 

And  up  on  the  swell  of  the  breezy  hills, 

We  sat  through  the  subtle  twilight  stills ; 


TWO   SEASONS   OF  LIFE.  99 

And  the  night-bird  sang  in  the  lonesome  swamp, 
And  the  full  moon  lit  her  blood-red  lamp, 
And  the  purple  flush  of  the  dear  dead  day 
Faded  out  of  the  west,  and  left  it  gray. 

When  the  stars  came  out  in  the  hazy  sky, 

And  the  katydid's  voice  rose  clear  and  high, 

And  the  cricket  chirped  in  the  hawthorn  hedge, 

And  the  musical  river  ran  o'er  the  sedge, 

And  the  mist  rose  white  as  the  winter  snow, 

And  the  elms  in  the  breeze  swayed  to  and  fro, 

We  sat  together,  and  hand  in  hand 

We  traveled  in  fancy  all  dreamland  ; 

Laid  gorgeous  plans  for  the  coming  time, 

When  the  world  would  be  perfect,  and  life  sublime. 

We  said  we  would  cross  the  Eastern  seas, 
Smell  India's  spices  and  Araby's  breeze; 
Talk  love  together  beneath  the  palms, 
Hear  Italy's  daughters  sing  vesper  psalms  ; 
See  sunsets  fade  from  Alpine  heights, 
From  dismal  Norway  see  Northern  Lights ; 
Climb  sacred  Sinai,  and  there,  in  awe, 
Behold  the  land  which  the  prophet  saw, 
And  by  Jerusalem's  ruined  towers 
Deplore  the  wreck  of  her  golden  hours. 

Oh,  'twas  delicious  !  the  rich  plantain  grew, 
And  the  creamy  bananas  were  wet  with  the  dew ; 
The  amber  oriole  flashed  through  the  flowers, 
And  the  bulbul  sang  in  the  orange  bowers, 


I0o  ONE    OF  LIFE'S  MISTAKES. 

And  beneath  the  silver  light  of  the  stars 

We  heard  the  tinkle  of  soft  guitars; 

Oh,  the  royal  midnights  !  the  calm,  sweet  days  ! 

Oh,  the  languorous  noons  and  the  twilight  haze  ! 

And  the  waves  rippled  lightly  of  that  south  sea, 

And  life  was  an  Eden  to  him  and  to  me ! 

\ 

Ah  !  it  is  over  !  this  world  is  so  cold  ! 

The  sunsets  are  sable  !  I  miss  the  red  gold  ! 

The  airs  that  sweep  o'er  me  are  chilly  and  damp, 

The  winds  o'er  the  dead  leaves  relentlessly  tramp  ! 

The  universe  holds,  for  me,  only  a  grave, 

Where  the  pale  lilies  bloom,  and  the  green  willows 

wave ! 

I  care  not  for  southlands,  or  orange,  or  palm, 
I  am  heedless  of  Italy's  breezes  of  balm  ; 
For  me  all  the  light  of  this  earth  is  so  dim  ! 
Heaven  would  not  be  Heaven  if  absent  from  him. 


ONE    OF    LIFE'S    MISTAKES. 

I  TAKE  the  truth  home  to  my  heart,  and  stand 
Helpless,  like  one  the  tide  bears  from  the  land, 
The  happy  land,  where  dwell  his  household  band. 

Self-blinded  I  have  been ;  no  cruel  blame 
Shall  fall  on  her  who  nobly  bears  my  name ; 
No  thought  of  mine  shall  stain  her  spotless  fame. 


ONE    OF  LIFE'S  MISTAKES.  IOi 

The  bright-eyed  stars  in,sumtner  nights  that  shine, 
The  purple  grape  before  'tis  changed  to  wine, — 
No  purer  are  than  this  pure  wife  of  mine. 

She  charmed  me  like  some  painting  rare  and  old, 
My  soul  twined  round  her,  sinuous  fold  on  fold ; 
But  I  was  proud  and  kept  my  love  untold. 

I  tried  to  stifle  what  I  felt,  and  said 

I'd  starve  my  passion  till  its  roots  were  dead, — 

For  I  was  poor,  and  she  was  nobly  bred. 

But  love  is  strong,  and  like  the  mighty  sea, 
Which  dashes  helpless  vessels  on  the  lee, 
It  burst  the  bounds  I  set,  and  conquered  me. 

I  took  her  hand  in  mine  one  summer  day, — 
She  met  my  look,  and  did  not  turn  away : 
Her  blue  eye's  sadness  haunts  me  still  alway. 

Had  she  but  told  me  she  had  loved  before, — 
That  through  some  sad  mistake  the  dream  was  o'er, 
And  that  her  heart  was  dead  for  evermore  ! 

I  fondly  thought  no  other  lips  had  pressed 
The  red  of  hers ;  I  thought  her  quiet  breast 
Had  never  held  another  head  to  rest. 

I  smoothed  her  dainty  fingers  white  as  snow, 
And  watched  her  face  to  see  her  pale  cheek  glow, 
And  thought  no  other  man  had  touched  her  so. 


102  ONE    OF  LIFE'S  MISTAKES. 

Oh,  those  were  days  stolen  from  Heaven's  delights  ! 
I  walked  on  flowers,  and  trod  enchanted  heights, 
Whose  airs  were  balm,  whose  walls  were  chrysolites. 

She  smiles  upon  me  now,  and  keeps  away 
From  him,  because  she  minds  her  vows  alway ; 
And  unto  me  she  gave  herself  for  aye. 

He  came  among  us,  handsome,  frank,  and  free ; 
His  manly  beauty  strangely  won  on  me, — 
Ah  !  had  I  seen  th'  inevitable  To-Be ! 

I  saw  them  when  they  met.     She  grew  as  white 
As  graveyard  marble,  in  the  cold  moonlight, 
That  through  the  oriel  window  fell  so  bright. 

He  touched  her  fingers ;  bowed  his  stately  head ; 
I  saw  his  swart  cheek  flush  with  burning  red, 
And  she — the  royal  woman  I  had  wed — 

She  turned  from  him  with  fine,  exquisite  scorn, 
E'en  while  her  brow  glowed  like  the  brow  of  morn ; 
And  I  stole  out,  and  wished  myself  unborn ! 

He  flirts  and  trifles  with  the  gay  young  girls, — 
Admires  their  eyes,  and  twines  their  pretty  curls, 
And  tells  them  that  their  teeth  are  like  white  pearls. 

But  when  he  meets  her,  all  the  nobler  sense 
Of  his  starved  soul  flames  up  in  power  intense  ! 
Well,  who  knows  what  may  be  a  century  hence? 


PRA  YER. 


103 


They  both  are  noble.     Both  remember  me ; 
And  go  their  separate  ways  all  silently, 
Hiding  the  lack  that  ne'er  will  cease  to  be. 

Their  story  is  a  simple  one  to  tell, — 

What  is  more  simple  than  a  funeral  knell  ? 

They  loved  each  other,  and  they  both  loved  well. 

She  thought  him  false ;  her  purse-proud  friends  helped  on 
The  sad  delusion  ;  gold  his  love  had  won  ; 
And  she  was  proud,  and  faith  was  all  undone  ! 

Well,  I  shall  live  my  life  out  by  her  side ; 
Feeling,  with  all  my  bitter  grief,  some  pride 
That  she  will  fall  not,  though  she  be  sore  tried. 


PRAYER. 

THE  rosy  day  is  fading  out 

Along  the  western  sky ; 
And  through  the  mellow  summer  air 

The  white  cloud-vessels  fly ; 
A  breath  of  odor  faint  and  sweet 

Comes  from  the  meadow's  breast, 
And  all  the  earth,  and  heaven,  lie 

Serene  in  quiet  rest. 

The  universe  sleeps  tranquilly 
Beneath  the  eye  of  God ; 


104 


PR  A  YER. 

And  weary  feet  are  resting  now 
Which  devious  ways  have  trod  ; 

Shall  lack  of  faith,  and  lack  of  hope, 
Disturb  and  tear  my  breast  ? 

Shall  doubt  of  Heaven's  mercy  fill  me 
With  a  vague  unrest? 

Perplexed  and  dark  my  spirit  is, 

I  cannot  see  the  way ; 
And  grim  night  flings  its  banners  out 

Across  the  brow  of  day ; 
But  though  the  distant  heights  are  hid 

In  veils  of  chilly  mist, 
I'll  not  despair, — the  vapors  flee 

When  by  the  sunbeams  kissed. 

Heaven  seems  a  long,  long  distance  ofT,- 

Shut  in  by  brazen  bars ; 
Forbidding  in  their  pale,  pure  light 

Twinkle  the  gleaming  stars. 
Failing  to  call  a  blessing  down, 

I'll  climb  the  winding  stair, 
And  reach  the  City  of  our  God, 

Borne  by  the  breath  of  prayer. 


A  WAKENED. 


AWAKENED. 

THERE  is  a  new-born  glory  in  the  skies  ! 

The  sunsets  never  showed  such  radiant  dyes, 

The  stars  ne'er  shone  with  such  bewildering  eyes ! 

All  things  created  are  to  beauty  given, 

And  earth  has  borrowed  the  delights  of  heaven  ! 

The  birds  and  streams  sing  more  melodious  airs, 
The  wild  old  forest  a  new  splendor  wears : 
All  that  I  view  with  love  my  heart  ensnares  ! 
When  the  whole  soul  its  full  love-wealth  is  giving, 
There  is  an  ecstasy  in  simply  living  ! 

The  atmosphere  is  full  of  rare,  sweet  stills, 
A  mystic  something  all  the  broad  space  fills ; 
The  winds  that  touch  me  sweep  the  Eternal  Hills ; 
And  through  the  crimson  clouds  of  mist  that  rise 
I  almost  catch  a  glimpse  of  Paradise  ! 

A  life  like  this  were  fullest  perfectness  ! 
Heaven,  to  be  heaven,  must  own  no  glory  less, 
Else  would  it  lack  in  royal  blessedness; 
And  even  there,  amid  the  waste  of  flowers, 
Our  longing  hearts  might  turn  to  these  charmed  hours  ! 
10* 


106  'A    CHANGE    OF  OPINION. 

Beloved !  it  is  a  gracious  thing  to  know 
Thyself  beloved  !  and  more  than  all  below 
That  love  should  cherished  be ;  but  ah,  not  so  ! 
For  a  true  woman,  loving  while  she  lives, 
Loves  not  the  love  she  takes,  but  that  she  gives  ! 


A    CHANGE    OF    OPINION. 

MOTHER. 

BESSIE,  'tis  time  the  brindled  cow  was  milked  ! 

The  shadows  of  the  hill 
Are  falling  down  so  fast  they  hide  away 

The  roof  of  Walton's  mill,— 
Go,  Bessie,  ere  the  gloom  of  weeping  night 

Comes  with  its  wings  of  ill. 

DAUGHTER. 

But,  mother  dear,  Will  Kendall  said,  yestreen, 

To-day  they'd  reap  the  grain, 
And  he'd  come  over  at  the  set  of  sun 

To  help  me  glean  the  plain. 
Please,  mother,  can't  the  brindle  heifer  wait 

Till  I  come  back  again? 

MOTHER. 
No,  Bessie,  I'll  not  have  you  tramping  out 

With  Will,  this  chilly  night ! 
Why,  child,  the  very  air  bears  on  its  wings 

A  dreadful  fever-blight ! 


A    CHANGE    OF  OPINION. 

Go  to  your  milking,  Bess,  while  yet  the  stains 
Of  sunset  on  the  sky  are  bright ! 

DAUGHTER. 

Well,  mother,  sure  I  know  dear  Will  will  think 

I'm  fickle  and  untrue  ! 
And  a  great  shade  of  sadness  will  come  o'er 

His  eye  so  calm  and  blue ; 
And  he  will  think  that  I  have  played  him  false, - 

Not  dreaming  it  was  you  / 

MOTHER. 

Bessie,  'tis  nonsense  loving  this  young  Will ! 

He's  plain,  and  proud,  and  poor ! 
If  'twere  not  for  the  gossip  of  the  dames, 

I'd  drive  him  from  my  door; 
And  I  forbid  you  e'er  to  see  his  face, 

Or  listen  to  his  silly  love-words  more ! 

DAUGHTER. 

But,  mother,  Willie's  Aunt  Jerome  is  dead, — 

Died  but  a  week  ago, — 
And  left  ten  thousand  pounds  of  gold  to  Will ! 

Last  night  he  told  me  so ; 
And  he's  to  be  a  gentleman,  and  dwell 

Where  servants  at  his  bidding  come  and  go  ! 

MOTHER. 

Ha  !  Ann  Jerome  is  dead  ?    Bess,  say  you  so  ? 
And  left  her  wealth  to  Will  ? 


107 


I08  NEVER  AGAIN. 

Well,  child,  you  needn't  mind  about  that  cow, 

She'll  feed  upon  the  hill; 
And  put  the  ribbons  in  your  curls,  my  love, 

And  go  and  meet  young  Will. 


NEVER    AGAIN. 

I  LOOK  abroad  upon  the  calm,  fair  land, 

Where  Autumn's  breath  has  dropped  a  wreath  of 

snow, 
And  where  the  pine-trees,  mute  with  waiting,  stand 

To  strike  their  harp-notes  when  the  wind  shall  blow. 
Night  drops  her  grand  old  silence  slowly  down, 

The  lines  of  air  and  ocean  blend  in  one ; 
The  gleaming  steeples  of  the  distant  town 

Are  lost  in  mists  of  twilight  soft  and  dun. 
Oh,  shall  rare  joys,  and  thoughts,  and  tones,  and  thrills, 
Come  to  me  in  this  hour  of  mystic  stills, 
Never  again  ? 

Oh,  I  remember  in  the  Long  Ago 

Such  nights  as  this, — sweet  almost  unto  pain  ! 
When  all  the  world  was  haloed  with  a  glow, 

And  full  content  descended  like  a  rain  ! 
The  quiet  night  passed  in  a  mazy  dream 

Of  golden  glows  and  flowers  of  brilliant  dyes  ! 


THE    OLD   STORY. 


109 


I  floated  down  an  amber-bosomed  stream, 

And  gazed  on  summer  skies  with  half-closed  eyes  ! 
Now,  the  soft  veil  of  love  and  youth  is  rent : 
When  will  my  life  be  filled  with  still  content? 
Never  again  ! 


THE    OLD    STORY. 

THE  hills  were  purple  in  the  twilight  haze, 
Eastward  the  full  moon  showed  her  silver  rim, 

And  whitely  o'er  the  chain  of  rock-bound  bays 
The  damp  cool  sea-fog  on  the  breeze  sailed  in. 

They  stood  together  by  the  garden-gate, 

Lengthening  the  sweet  sad  moments  as  they  might; 

The  west  sky  lost  its  crimson,  and,  like  Fate, 
Upon  their  heads  fell  down  the  autumn  night. 

He  held  her  hand,  and  all  his  ardent  face 
Grew  radiant  at  the  touch  so  subtly  sweet ! 

This  old,  old  earth  for  him  wore  fresh  new  grace, 
And  turned  to  love,  and  joy,  beneath  his  feet ! 

He  said  his  love  was  like  the  eternal  hills, 
Steadfast,  unchanging,  as  their  line  of  blue  ! 

And  in  the  quiet  of  the  evening  stills 
He  gave  his  solemn  promise  to  be  true  ! 


HO  THE    OLD  STORY. 

She  trusted  him !     Women  were  made  to  trust ! 

It  is  their  instinct !     Strange  they  never  think 
That  idols  crumble  oft  to  veriest  dust, 

And  joy's  full  cups  break  on  the  fountain's  brink ! 

To-night,  this  winter  night  of  frost  and  snow, 
She  sits  alone,  sad-eyed,  with  silver  hair  ! 

Her  cheek  has  lost  its  roundness  and  its  glow, 
And  all  her  features  are  deep-lined  with  care. 

And  he?    Within  a  crowded  city's  mart 
He  has  a  home  of  splendor  grand  and  cold. 

A  black-haired  woman  reigns  in  pride  within, — 
Her  hair  was  like  the  sunshine's  rippling  gold. 

Well,  life  is  life,  and  very  brief  at  best ; 

We  do  not  live,  and  leave  grief's  ways  untrod ! 
Happy,  if  when  we  go  to  find  our  rest, 

Our  sorrows  have  not  made  us  false  to  God ! 


IN  -TIME    OF    WAR. 


THE    SENTINEL. 

SOLDIER,  upon  the  bastioned  wall, 

Treading  thy  solemn,  measured  beat, 
The  sky  of  midnight  o'er  thy  head, 

The  broad  Atlantic  at  thy  feet. 
Tell  me  thy  thoughts,  as  pacing  on 

Through  tropic  heat,  and  moonless  air, 
The  slow  night  passes,  and  the  morn 

Breaks  up  the  east  with  lurid  glare. 

The  faint  breath  of  the  languid  South, 

So  sweet  it  must  have  wandered  through 
The  orange-groves  of  Indian  lands, 

Or  white  magnolias  wet  with  dew, 
Falls  on  thy  brow  with  gentle  touch, 

A  soft,  insidious,  'wildering  breath, 
Holding  in  its  voluptuous  sweets, 

Perchance,  the  hidden  pangs  of  death. 

Tell  me  thy  thoughts,  stern  sentinel ! 

Are  they  of  yester  morning's  strife? 
When  'mid  the  roar  of  shot  and  shell, 

And  'mid  the  shriek  of  parting  life, 
Thy  bright  steel  gleamed  in  yonder  trench, 

As,  leaping  on  a  prostrate  gun, 
Thy  voice  sent  forth  the  rallying  shout, — 

"  Huzza  !  huzza  !  the  day  is  won  !" 

ii  (113) 


THE   SENTINEL. 

Art  thinking  of  the  coming  morn, 

When  blood-red  shall  the  banners  glow, 
And  on  the  tented  field  without 

The  deadly  columns  storm  the  foe  ? 
When  'mid  the  smoke,  and  clang  of  steel, 

And  'mid  the  strife  of  carnage  dire, 
Thy  stalwart  form  shall  lead  the  van, 

And  meet  the  death-hot,  murderous  fire? 

• 
Is 't  fear  that  blanches  thy  stern  brow? 

Fear  !  should  a  soldier  know  the  word? 
Come  life  or  death,  what  matters  it 

When  the  war-trump  his  blood  has  stirred? 
Speak,  soldier  !  ah,  thy  cheek  is  flushed, — 

A  tender  gleam,  like  yon  soft  star, 
Lights  up  thine  eye  as  it  is  turned 

Toward  the  Northern  sky  afar. 

• 

He  answers  not.     Wherefore's  the  need? 

He  thinks  not  of  the  battle's  din, 
Nor  of  the  gloomy,  bristling  walls 

That  shut  the  grim  old  fortress  in  : 
He  knows  whose  orchard-trees  are  white 

With  wildest  wealth  of  rosy  snow; 
He  knows  the  red-lipped  May  has  kissed 

The  clover-blossoms  into  glow. 

He  sees  the  low,  brown  cottage-house, 
Half  hidden  'neath  the  sheltering  trees, 

That  gray  and  mossy  lift  with  pride 
The  peerless  growth  of  centuries ; 


TOO    OLD.  II: 

His  eyes  are  moist, — 'tis  not  the  mist 
That  rises  from  the  wave-washed  shore  ; 

'Tis  a  grand  weakness,  yielded  to 
For  those  he  may  see  never  more  ! 

Soldier  !  it  is  a  thrilling  sight 

To  see  the  brave  man  when  he  weeps 
At  thought  of  those  whose  memories 

Fore'er  within  his  heart  he  keeps  ! 
God  bless  thee,  sentinel,  to-night, 

While  on  thy  lonesome,  watchful  beat, — 
The  sky  of  midnight  o'er  thy  head, 

The  broad  Atlantic  at  thy  feet ! 


TOO    OLD. 

HE  stands  before  the  cottage  door, 

An  aged  man,  and  gray ; 

He  hears  the  neap-tide  beat  the  shore, 

And  the  laughter,  on  the  distant  moor, 

Of  children  at  their  play. 

His  dim  eyes  wander  off  afar, 

Beyond  the  broken  lines 
Of  the  rocks  that  bound  the  harbor  bar, 
Of  the  skies  that  hold  the  evening  star, — 
Beyond  the  wood  of  pines. 

He  looks  on  sunny  southern  hills, 

Beyond  the  clouds  of  gold, — 


Il6  TOO    OLD. 

He  gives  no  heed  to  the  wild  bird's  trills, 
Or  the  faint  perfume  of  the  daffodils 
In  the  garden  grand  and  old. 

His  weird  eyes  see  the  snow-white  camp 

Pitched  on  the  river  bank ; 
He  hears  the  sentry's  steady  tramp, 
And  the  iron  hoofs  of  the  war-horse  clamp, 
The  spur  in  his  bloody  flank. 

He  sees  the  old  flag's  red  and  white, 

With  field  of  starry  blue, 
Float  proudly  through  the  purple  light, 
Above  the  smoke  of  the  deadly  fight, 

And  the  soft  turfs  crimson  dew. 

He  hears  the  crash  of  shot  and  shell 

And  sees  the  flash  of  the  guns, — 
He  hears  the  fifes  like  a  funeral  knell, 
And  the  bugle-notes  like  a  silver  bell, 
And  the  glorious  roll  of  drums ! 

"  Oh  God  !"  he  cries,  "  for  youth  again  ! 

For  manly  strength  once  more  ! 
I'd  strive  to  the  death  with  might  and  main 
I  would  not  shrink  at  mortal  pain, 

Or  pale  at  the  battle's  roar ! 

"  My  hair  is  white  with  age,  I  know, 

But  if  they'd  let  me  stand 
With  our  brave  recruits,  before  the  foe, 
Where  hot  shot  falls  like  winter  snow, — 
With  the  flag-staff  in  my  hand, — 


ONE  AWAY.  117 

"  I  would  not  flinch,  though  all  the  air 

Were  red  with  death  and  flame, — 
Though  cannon-breaths  were  in  my  hair, 
And  death  was  busy, — all  things  I'd  dare 
For  country  and  her  fame  !" 

The  soft  night  falls, — he  breathes  a  sigh, 

He  knows  his  dreams  are  vain  ! 
But  he  yearns  for  the  distant  battle-sky, 
And  his  old  blood  stirs  to  the  battle-cry, 
And  his  heart  is  young  again ! 


ONE    AWAY. 

THE  wild  winds  whistle  down  the  hills'  dark  gorge ; 

The  leaden  air  is  full  of  hail  and  snow; 
And,  tossed  and  harassed  by  the  reckless  wind, 

The  drifts  to  frigid,  white-capt  mountains  grow. 

The  cold  is  brutal :  ice  reigns  everywhere ; 

The  prisoned  streamlet  groans  in  sullen  pain  ; 
The  mighty  river,  flowing  to  the  sea, 

Struggles  in  impotence  to  break  its  chain. 

It  is  a  night  when,  thankful  unto  God 

For  home  and  love,  we  gather  round  the  hearth ; 
When  we  would  draw  in  those  we  care  for  most 

To  our  embrace,  from  all  the  wide,  cold  earth. 
n* 


g  ONE  AWAY. 

I  shudder,  though  the  grate  is  crimson  red 
And  all  around  me  is  the  ruddy  light ; 

My  thoughts  go  out  to  wander  after  one, — 
To  wonder  where  he  is  this  boisterous  night ! 

Sleeps  he  beside  the  camp-fire's  dying  glare, 
Dreaming  of  home  and  friends  so  far  away  ? 

Or  pacing  on  the  lonesome  picket-guard, 
With  weary  waiting  for  the  break  of  day  ? 

The  tents  gleam  whitely  through  the  torpid  night ; 

The  earthworks,  sharp  defined,  rise  up  below; 
And,  through  the  murky  gloom  that  lies  between, 

He  sees  the  distant  watch-fires  of  the  foe. 

His  dark  eye  kindles, — flushes  hot  his  cheek : 
Maybe  the  morrow's  sun  will  shine  on  strife  ! 

The  smoky  sky  hang  over  men  who  meet 

To  yield  up  blood  for  blood,  and  life  for  life  ! 

Oh,  Heaven  !  the  winds  shriek  on  like  fiends  at  war  ! 

My  heart  shrinks  cold  and  shudd'ring  in  my  breast ; 
The  thought  of  him  upon  that  deadly  field 

Breaks  ruthlessly  through  all  my  hours  of  rest ! 

I  find  no  peace,  nor  comfort !  Heaven,  be  kind  ! 

This  mortal  dread  of  fate,  so  stern  and  grim, 
Is  terrible  !  my  dreams  are  full  of  it ! 

My  life  is  one  long  prayer  to  God  for  him  ! 


AFTER    THE  BATTLE. 


119 


AFTER    THE    BATTLE. 

NIGHT  settles  on  the  mountain 

That  flamed  an  hour  ago 
With  all  the  grand  insignia 

Of  sunset's  fiery  glow ; 
And  through  the  purple  heavens, 

High  in  the  amethyst, 
The  solemn  stars  are  gleaming  white 

Through  the  enshrouding  mist. 

For  us,  they  look  on  quiet ; 

On  peaceful,  happy  homes ; 
We  hear  no  roar  of  cannon, 

No  crash  of  warlike  drums; 
We  see  no  battle-banners, 

Bloody,  and  stained,  and  rent ; 
For  us,  no  smoke  of  carnage 

Clouds  the  blue  firmament. 

O  stars,  and  sweet  moon,  hanging 

Up  in  the  breathless  height ! 
What  scenes  of  desolation 

Ye  look  upon,  to-night ! 
On  green  fields  blushing  crimson  ; 

On  bright  swords  wet  with  gore, 
Dropped  from  strong  hands  which  grasped  them, 

But  ne'er  will  grasp  them  more  ! 


T20  AFTER    THE  BATTLE. 

The  night  is  gathering  slowly ; 

Some  faces  lie  so  calm, 
You  think  the  dead  ears  listen 

To  the  eternal  psalm  ! — 
Lie  blankly  gazing  upward, 

Unheedful  night  has  come, 
The  time  the  soldier  folds  his  arms 

And  dreams  of  friends  and  home. 

They  lie  there  all  together, 

Rebel,  and  Union  true ; 
Close,  side  by  side,  the  uniforms 

Of  gray,  and  Federal  blue ; 
White-haired  and  bearded  veterans, 

Youths  with  their  locks  of  gold, 
Whose  pale,  unchanging  faces, 

Now,  never  will  grow  old  ! 

The  living  claim  our  weeping ; 

The  dead,  why  sorrow  o'er? 
They  have  passed  unto  God,  and  He 

Cares  for  them  evermore  ; 
They've  crossed  the  mystic  river 

And  reached  the  shadowy  lands, — 
We  follow  them  no  further, — 

We  leave  them  in  His  hands. 

O  God  !   our  hearts  cry  daily 
For  all  this  strife  to  cease  ! 

Give  us  the  signal  victory, 
And  give  us  lasting  peace  ! 


IN  TIME    OF   WAR.  121 

Remove  all  strife  and  bitterness 

From  our  loved  land  afar, 
And  let  the  time  come  speedily 

When  there  shall  be  no  war  ! 


IN    TIME    OF    WAR. 

THERE  is  a  sadness  in  the  autumn  air, 

Something,  beside  the  yellow  leaf  and  sere, 

Reminds  us  of  the  hopes  the  young  spring  brought, 
Sweet  hopes  that  perish  with  the  waning  year ; 

And  over  all  the  land  a  sigh  of  pain 
Shudders  along  the  mellow  atmosphere. 

The  great  heart  of  the  nation,  stirred  from  peace, 
Torn  from  the  quiet  languor  of  its  rest, 

Breaks  lavishly  its  wealth  of  crimson  life 

On  Southern  fields,  and  prairies  of  the  West ! 

Oh,  what  shall  be  our  final  recompense 
For  all  this  carnage  of  our  brave  and  best  ? 

A  Country  and  a  Name  !  we  stand  for  that ! 

Convinced,  though  suffering,  it  is  better  far 
To  weep  for  all  we  love  and  cherish  most, 

Than  to  give  up  a  single  glorious  star  ! 
And  let  the  right  hand  perish  that  would  dare 

The  blue  field  of  our  banner  thus  to  mar  ! 

We  count  the  cost.     We  know  the  stricken  hearts ! 
God  pity  them  !  and  make  them  strong  to  bear  ! 


I22  LITTLE    GRAY  BE'SS. 

And  from  the  waste  wild  lands  of  sea-girt  Maine, 
Unto  the  Golden  Shore  of  promise  fair, 

Unite  as  one,  once  more,  these  severed  States ; 
And  let  the  cry  of  Union  fill  the  air  ! 


LITTLE    GRAY    BESS. 

SHE  climbs  to  the  window-ledge  by  my  sfde, — 

Little  gray  Bess, — and  she  touches  my  face 
With  her  little  wet  nose  that  will  not  be  denied, 

And  she  tosses  her  head  with  infinite  grace ; 
Poor  little  kitten  !  poor  little  pet ! 

We  have  lived  on  through  the  sorrow  and  gloom, — 
Ah,  little  kitten  !  if  we  could  forget 

To  recall  that  June  night  with  its  low-hanging  moon  ! 
That  long-agone  night,  when  the  sea-billows  broke 

Up  the  sharp  shore  with  a  querulous  croon  ! 

George  was  the  last  one ; — all  of  them  slept 

Low  in  the  valley,  beside  the  sad  sea ; 
When  I  buried  my  dead,  I  joyed,  while  I  wept, 

That  God  had  been  kind  and  left  one  to  me ! 
When  the  war-cloud  o'er  Sumter's  walls  broke, 

He  hurried  to  me  with  fire  in  his  eye, 
My  boy's  gentle  heart  to  mankind  awoke  ! 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  who  will  falter?     Not  I ! 
The  black  name  of  coward  I  loathe  with  proud  scorn  ! 

I,  too,  judge  it  sweet  for  my  country  to  die  !" 

Though  my  heart  trembled,  my  voice  did  not  quake  ! 
Ah,  how  the  wind  whistles  across  the  lone  moor ! 


LITTLE    GRAYBESS.  123 

And  the  leaves  of  the  sycamore  quiver  and  shake, 

And  the  sea-gulls  are  flying  in  thick  to  the  shore  ! 
I  told  him  God  speed,  and  I  buckled  his  sword, 

And  enjoined  him  to  ever  be  loyal  and  true, 
To  yield  up  his  life  ere  the  flag  he  saw  lowered, 

And  trailed  in  the  dust  its  red,  white,  and  blue  ! 
And  I  bade  him  remember  this  work  was  the  best 

That  God  and  his  country  had  called  him  to  do  ! 

When  he  departed,  he  patted  your  head, 

Little  gray  Bess;  and  I'll  never  forget 
The  voice  of  my  boy,  as  he  halted,  and  said, 

"  Mother,  be  kind  to  my  poor  little  pet." 
Ah,  little  kitten  !  you  listen  in  vain  ! 

Listening,  and  waiting,  and  watching,  are  o'er  ! 
Wail,  pitiless  wind  !  fall,  pitiless  rain  ! 

And  beat,  wild  sea-billows,  upon  the  sharp  shore  ! 
Let  me  shut  tight  the  window,  little  gray  Bess: 

He  will  come  in  through  the  wicket  no  more  ! 

Oh,  I  remember  the  fate-burdened  day 

When  they  brought  me  a  letter  unsullied  and  white, 
Writ  in  a  strange  hand, — endorsed  "No  Delay  !" 

When  I  touched  it,  how  swiftly  the  day  changed  to 

night ! 
Only  a  line, — but  the  letters  glowed  red 

As  with  blood, — no  more  and  no  less : 
"  Shot  through  the  heart !"  Oh,  my  brave,  noble  dead  ! 

But  we  miss  him  so  sorely,  little  gray  Bess  ! 
And  it's  lonely  and  sad,  for  the  nights  are  so  long, 

And  but  you  and  I  left  in  the  house,  little  Bess ! 


124 


CONSECRA  TION. 


CONSECRATION. 

LOVE  is  the  life  of  a  woman ;  her  chiefest  of  blessings ; 

her  all ! 
Lacking  its  sweets,  her  existence  of  full  perfection  is 

shorn ; 
Love,  the  wonderful  alchemist,  changes  to  honey  life's 

gall,— 

Transforms  the  sad  gloom  of  midnight  into  the  gold 
blush  of  morn  ! 

What  shall  requite  her  for  Love's  loss?  oh,  what  shall 

suffice  her  instead  ? 
What  shall  comfort  and  quiet  her  when  loveless  and 

desolate  ? 
What  shall  recall  her  to  life  again  when  her  heart's 

fibres  are  dead  ? 

Oh,  it  is  fearful  to  live  with  nothing  for  which  you 
can  wait ! 

Country?     Yes,  country  is  dear  to  me  !  from  its  bland 

airs  I  draw  breath. 
Prosper  it,  God  of  our  fathers !  now  in  its  bitterest 

need ! 
Sustain  it !  save  it  from  tottering  down  to  dishonorable 

death  ! 
Uphold  it !  restore  it,  unbroken  !  oh,  give  us  heed  ! 


CONSE  CRA  TION.  1 2  5 

I  am  weak ;  I  confess  it, — courage  will  fail  me, — must 

I  yield  up 
All  that  I  own  of  earth's  glory, — all  that  I  hold  dear, 

and  prize? 
Heaven's  beneficent  gift  to  me, — my  soul's  blest  anchor 

of  hope  ? 

Smile  as  I  offer  it, — clothed,  crowned,  for  the  fell 
sacrifice  ? 

True,  they  soothe  me  with  fair  words ;    he  will  win 

honor,  glory,  and  fame ; 
He  will  come  back  to  me  covered  with  victory's 

proud  scars ; 
I  shall  blush  red  with  my  pride  when  the  multitude 

shout  forth  his  name  ! 

My  daring  hero  !  my  valiant  knight !  home  returned 
from  the  wars  ! 

Well,  it  may  be  so,  but — if! — oh,  that  terrible,  shud 
dering  doubt ! 
Creeping  into  my  breast, — paralyzing  to  marble  my 

heart ! 

No !    no !    it   is   useless !    impotent  I  to  cast  the  in 
truder  out ! 

Cease  urging, — ask  it  not  of  me ;  we  cannot  exist 
apart ! 

Will  Fame  assuage  death's  anguish?  will  it  make  more 

enticing  the  grave  ? 

Will  it  dry  up  a  tear,  hush  a  sob,  or  tear  from  sorrow 
a  pain  ? 

12 


I26  CONSECRATION. 

Will  it  make  less  chilly  and  dreadful  the  ice-cold  touch 

of  the  wave 

That  launches  the  fearsome  mortal  out  on  the  unex 
plored  main  ? 

I  sleep,  and  my  dreams  they  are  troubled, — I  hear  the 

rolling  of  drums, 

The  martial  blast  of  the  trumpet,  the  rush  of  ca 
parisoned  steeds ; 
I  see  the  gray  smoke  of  the  conflict,  the  red  hot  fog 

of  the  guns, 

The  crimson  stains  of  the  greensward,  where  many  a 
true  heart  bleeds  ! 

Aloft,  like  the  gold  gleam  of  sunlight,  the  banners  flash 

on  the  air, 
Above  the  strife   and   the  carnage  'where   men    to 

demons  are  turned  ; 
I  see  the  glitter  of  broadswords, — the  horrible  eye  of 

despair ! 

Oh,  God  of  Heaven  !  that  honors  should  be  so  ter 
ribly  earned  ! 

I  walk  o'er  the  dread  plain  at  midnight, — my  feet  are 

wet  with  the  gore  ! 
I  shudder  at  dead  men's  faces  gazing  blankly  up  to 

the  sky, 
With  eyes  that  see  not  the  calm  stars,  with  eyes  that 

shall  see  nevermore  ! 

Ah  me  !  it  is  dreadful !  dreadful !  going  to  battle  to 
die! 


CONSECRA  TION. 


127 


But  some  wives  must  bear  it,  some  hearts  suffer  and 

break : 
Why  shall  not  I  doom  my  life  to  darkness  as  well  ? 

I  shall  not  be  alone  ; 
I  will  be  brave,  I  will  conquer !  I  will  not  give  voice 

to  a  sigh  ! 

Go  forth !    and  God   keep   thee !    thou   only   and 
idolized  one  ! 

I  will  kiss  him  my  last,  and  my  lips  shall  not  quiver 

nor  shrink ; 
I  will  chill  not  his  ardor ;  his  great  heart,  so  loyal 

and  true, 
Shall  not  beat  one  throb  slower  for  me,  shall  not  with 

heaviness  sink 

For  my  grief,  or  my  tears.    I  will  show  what  a  woman 
can  do ! 

And  if  the  worst  comes, — if  he  falls, — so  let  it  be! 

Great  grief  is  dumb  ! 
Who  shall  proclaim  my  bereavement  unto  the  people? 

Not  I! 
He  will  be  lonesome  with  waiting, — I  shall  be  speedy 

to  come; 

There  will  be  left  to  me  this, — thank  God  !  blessed 
comfort — to  die  ! 


!  2  8  UND1SMA  YED. 


UNDISMAYED. 

COURAGE  !  ye  fainting  hearts  ! 

Though  darkness  rules  to-day, 
Maybe  the  morrow's  sun  may  chase 

The  mist  and  gloom  away. 
Though  now  War's  clarion  tongue 

Rings  through  the  startled  air, 
The  voice  of  Peace  shall  yet  proclaim 

Its  victory  everywhere  ! 

Grim  into  every  house 

Some  fearful  trouble  comes ! 
Oh,  God  !  the  lonesome  hearts  to-night, 

The  desolated  homes ! 
For  us  who  stay  behind, 

To  watch,  and  pray,  and  wait, 
The  lot  is  harder  than  for  those 

Who  go  to  seek  their  fate. 

But  shall  we  fail,  and  sink, 

Beneath  the  weight  of  woe? 
We  who  have  bid  our  dearest  ones 

Gird  on  the  sword  and  go  ! 
No  !  though  we  suffer  loss, 

And  weep  our  secret  tears, 
We  look  beyond  the  present  time, — 

Look  to  the  coming  years. 


A   SOLDIER  DEAD. 

No  grand  great  good  can  spring 

Through  painless  ease  to  birth  ! 
The  hand  of  chastening  falls  with  weight 

Upon  the  cringing  earth  ! 
But  midst  it  all,  we  know, 

Through  darkness  and  through  light, 
That  God  is  strong  enough  to  bring 

The  victory  to  the  Right ! 
October,  1862. 


129 


A    SOLDIER    DEAD. 

HE  died  amid  the  red  hot  smoke  of  battle, 

Died,  with  the  flag,  blood-purchased,  in  his  hand  ; 
Died,  with  his  white  lips  shouting,  "On  to  victory!" 

Cheering,  and  urging  on  his  bold  command. 
Beneath  a  Southern  sky  of  softest  azure, 

His  grave-faced  comrades  laid  him  down  to  rest, 
While  muffled  drum-taps  stirred  the  air  of  evening, 

And  the  great  sun  hung  low  within  the  west, — 
Laid  him  to  sleep  with  the  blood-reeking  banner, 

So  dearly  won,  shrouding  his  lifeless  breast. 

What  need  of  sculptured  urn,  or  mausoleum, 
To  tell  his  virtues,  consecrate  his  name  ? 

He  perished  for  his  country  !  death  all-glorious  ! 
The  proudest  fate  that's  given  man  by  Fame ! 

A  nation's  tears  are  his, — a  nation  mourns  him, — 
His  monument  shall  outlast  space  and  time  ! 
12* 


130  A   SOLDIER   DEAD. 

He  was  a  soldier;  shared  a  soldier's  fortune, 
And  yielded  up  his  life  in  manhood's  prime; 

Proud  of  the  honor, — proud  to  be  selected 
To  die  a  death  so  royally  sublime  ! 

A  fair  New  England  home  is  drear  without  him, 

Bright  eyes  are  sad  with  weight  of  unshed  tears ; 
The  memory  of  his  lonely  grave  will  darken 

The  lives  of  kindred  for  these  many  years. 
But  let  them  joy  that  for  their  noble  country 

They  had  this  dear  one  for  a  sacrifice  ; 
He  is  not  lost, — the  eyes  of  a  great  nation 

Have  marked  the  lone  spot  where  his  mortal  lies ; — 
For,  though  recorded  not  on  history's  tablets, 

It  is  an  epoch  when  a  brave  man  dies  ! 

Yes,  leave  him  there, —the  wild  and  grand  Atlantic 

Shall  sing  his  dirges  now  and  evermore; 
Shall  daily  chant  his  requiem,  as  the  surges 

Beat  up  the  curvings  of  the  sandy  shore. 
The  strife  and  tumults  of  his  life  are  ended ; 

For   him,  the   "Charge,"   "Advance,"   "Sortie," 

are  done ; 
He'll  face  no  more  the  hail  of  hostile  cannon, 

The  smoke  of  conflict  darkens  not  his  sun  ! 
He's  scaled  the  walls,  and  gained  the  heavenly  bastions ; 

His  peace  is  come;  his  bloodless  victory's  won. 


IN  MOURNING. 


IN    MOURNING. 

You  say  I  must  be  calm,  and  try  to  bear 
This  chastisement  as  a  brave  woman  should, 

Content,  nay,  prideful,  that  I've  yielded  up 
The  life  of  my  life  for  my  country's  good. 

I  must  be  calm, — well,  stone  is  not  more  calm  ! 

I  do  not  wring  my  hands,  or  beat  my  breast ; 
My  eyes  are  dry;  I've  not  a  tear  to  shed, — 

My  fretful  weeping  might  disturb  his  rest. 

Sighs  come  not  from  my  lips ;  feeling  is  dead  ; 

Only  a  dull  endurance  reigns  within, — 
Disturbed,  at  times,  by  longings  wild  and  vague 

To  cast  off  life,  it  is  so  cold  and  grim. 

An  open  grave  lies  ever  at  my  feet, 

Whether  I  wake,  or  toss  in  restless  sleep ; 

I  smell  the  damp  fresh  mould,  and  hear  the  spade 
Go  crunching  down,  to  make  it  dark  and  deep. 

I  see  him  lying  by  its  ghastly  brink ; 

The  crimson  banner  with  its  bars  of  white, 
Bought  with  his  life,  folding  his  quiet  breast, 

And  gleaming  blood-red  through  the  moonlit  night. 

He  looked  his  last  upon  the  fair  blue  sky, 
Clouded  with  smoke  of  battle's  lurid  breath  ; 


I32 


DUST  TO  DUST. 


Heaved  his  last  sigh  where  greedy  cannon  mouths 
Had  drank  all  the  sweet  air,  and  left  but  death. 

No  gentle  hands  to  touch  his  clammy  brow, 

No  tender  kisses  on  his  silent  lips, 
No  voice  of  love  to  soothe  his  failing  ear, 

No  kiss  to  close  his  eyes  in  death's  eclipse. 

Leave  me  alone  !  words  are  of  little  worth 
That  fall  on  deafened  ears  !  leave  me  alone  ! 

Your  comfortings  mean  well :  take  thanks,  and  go  ! 
What  use  to  waste  your  breath  upon  a  stone  ? 


DUST    TO    DUST. 

SILENCE  all  around  us, 
Camp-fires  burning  low ; 

Stern  and  gaunt,  the  sentries 
On  their  slow  beat  go. 

Here  in  early  twilight, 
Under  sparkle  of  stars, 

We  have  gathered  in  silence, 
Men  of  battle  and  scars, 

Gathered  to  bury  a  comrade, 

Only  a  raw  recruit ; 
Lying  ghastly  before  us, 

Stirless,  and  pale,  and  mute. 


DUST  TO   DUST. 

Grimy  and  brown  his  forehead, 

Matted  his  curling  hair ; 
Lift  the  chestnut  masses, — 

You'll  see  his  death-wound  there. 

Cover  his  broad  breast  lightly 
O'er  with  the  faded  blue; 

Wrap  the  banner  round  him 
Damp  with  the  reeking  dew. 

Lay  his  rifle  beside  him, 

Hollow  his  bed  in  the  sand, — 

Pile  the  loose  soil  above  him 
With  an  unsparing  hand. 

Read  the  burial-service, 

"  Dust  return  unto  dust," — 

Here  in  the  dark  we  leave  him  ! 
God,  we  are  needy  of  trust ! 

Leave  him  !  Night  is  advancing, 
The  moon  is  white  on  the  hill ; 

The  cry  of  the  open-eyed  sentry 
Challenges  hoarsely  and  shrill. 

Silence,  sadness,  and  quiet, — 
Only  the  sea's  solemn  moan 

Comes  to  our  ears  from  the  harbor, 
As  we  leave  him  alone. 


133 


134 


WIDOWED  AND    CHILDLESS. 


WIDOWED    AND    CHILDLESS. 

THEY  brought  me  the  news  last  night,  at  moonrise ; 

I  was  sitting  just  here,  where  the  silver  fell  in  ; 
I  remember  I  thought,  as  I  looked  at  the  skies, 

That  the  world  seemed  too  pure  for  the  entrance  of 
sin. 

I  laid  down  my  head  on  the  cool  window-ledge, — 
Half  happy,  half  sad  with  a  trembling  unrest ; 

I  drank  in  the  sweets  of  the  white  hawthorn  hedge, 
And  flushed  in  the  air  gushing  soft  from  the  west. 

A  faint,  hollow  knock  at  the  portico-door 
Jarred  on  my  ear ;  was  it  fancied  or  real  ? 

Sadder  sound  than  had  ever  alarmed  me  before, 
Or  wakened  from  slumber  my  dreaming  Ideal. 

I  shuddered, — 'twas  cold, — the  night  air  was  chill ; 

Frigid  and  icy,  my  heart  stopped  its  beat. 
Omen?  oh,  was  it  an  omen  of  ill? 

What  grim,  ghastly  phantom  my  vision  would  greet? 

Slowly  and  solemn  my  visitant  came, 

With  irresolute  lips  and  tear-brimming  eye; 

Spoke  to  me  pitifully, — called  me  by  name 

In  a  broken  voice  choked  by  a  shuddering  sigh. 


WIDOWED  AND    CHILDLESS. 


135 


"  There  has  been  a  great  battle  !     Many  are  slain  !" 
"Tell  me,"  I  cried,  "  with  whom  victory  rests?" 

"  Our  proud  flag,"  he  said,  "  floats  high  o'er  the  plain 
Where  our  brave  soldiers  lie  with  their  swords  on 
their  breasts." 

"Thank  God!"    I   cried  out— "  thank  God  for  the 

Right!" 

"Madam,"  said  he,  "our  true-hearted,  brave  men 
Went  down  unto  death  by  scores  in  the  fight, 

Went   down   in  the   fell   cannonade!" — and   what 
then? 

"  God  rest  them  !"  I  said  ;  but  a  sharp  sword  of  dread 
Pierced  into  my  breast ;  I  felt  chilly  and  numb ; 

"  Speak  the  worst,"  said  my  eyes  :  "  are  they  living,  or 

dead?" 
But  my  cold  lips  were  ice-flakes  frozen  and  dumb. 

Could  it  be  ?  can  it  be  ?  no  !  no  !  no  !  no  ! 

God  is  too  merciful, — God  is  too  kind  ! 
Both  my  brave  sons, — my  darlings  !  laid  low  ! 

Heaven  be  pitiful !  I  fall, — I  am  blind  ! 

Is  not  that  quite  enough  !  both  of  them  slain  ! 

Torn  by  the  cruel  shot,  bruised  by  the  shell? 
Lying  still,  cold  on  the  blood-crimsoned  plain, 

Uniformed,  armed,  open-eyed,  as  they  fell ! 

"  Still  another,"  said  he.     My  husband?  Great  God  ! 

"Killed  by  a  shot  from  a  bold  grenadier  !" 
Poured  out  his  life  on  the  red,  reeking  sod, 

While  the  tramp  of  mad  chargers  smote  on  his  ear  ! 


136  COMING   HOME. 

I  am  blasted,  desolate,  lightning-cursed,  shorn  ! 

Let  me  alone  in  your  triumph,  alone, — 
Why  would  you  trouble  the  stricken,  afflicted,  forlorn? 

Leave  me,  and  pass  me  !  I  am  feelingless  stone! 

When  your  army  comes  back  with  flags  streaming  out, 
With  rolling  of  drums,  bugle-blasts,  and  huzzas, 

Flushed  hot  with  your  triumph,  aloud  ye  will  shout 
For  the  brave,  and  point  to  their  badges  of  stars. 

Ay,  look  !  let  the  gleam  dazzle  !  cast  not  away 

A  thought  to  the  soldiers  who  toiled,  bled,  and  died  ! 

Let  them  rest !  they /ought  well  through  the  smoke- 
darkened  day ; 
And  when  you  pass  me, — look  away, — turn  aside  ! 


COMING    HOME. 

"  ELEVENTH    NEW   HAMPSHIRE." 

OH.  God  be  thanked  that  from  the  depth 

Of  War's  distressing  night 
We  see,  across  the  Southern  hills, 

At  last,  a  gleam  of  light ! 
The  spotless  hand  of  Peace  holds  out 

The  olive-branch  and  palm, 
And  o'er  this  harassed  land  of  ours 

There  falls  a  space  of  calm  ; 


COMING   HOME. 

Yes,  God  be  thanked  !  lift  up  the  cry  ! 
And,  June  winds,  bear  it  flitting  by, 
Laden  with  summer  balm. 

From  many  a  bloody  field 

Behold  the  heroes  come  ! 
We've  doubted  long  ;  but  now  we  see 

Our  soldiers  coming  home  ! 
Worn,  and  unkempt,  and  rough, 

Scarred,  and  in  coarse  array, 
But  bearing  still  the  same  true  hearts 

They  took  with  them  away  ! 
Oh,  welcome  them  with  heart  and  hand, 
The  gallant,  loyal,  faithful  band 
Who  come  to  us  to-day  ! 

We  miss  some  faces  that  we  knew  : 

Beneath  the  Southern  grass 
They  lie,  with  eyes  that  do  not  note 

The  shadows  as  they  pass ; 
With  cold  ears  deaf  to  all  the  sound 

Of  martial  fife  and  drum 
Which  thrills  upon  the  summer  air 

And  calls  their  comrades  home  ! 
But  heaven  is  just  as  near  their  rest, 
And  God,  who  loves  those  brave  ones  best, 
Has  spoke  the  sweet  word,  "  Come  !" 

Welcome  to  all  the  boys  in  blue  ! 

They've  earned  the  right  to  fame  ! 
We  speak  of  them,  and  own  with  pride 

There's  something  in  a  name  ! 
13 


137 


138  GLEAMS   OF  PEACE. 

God  bless  the  feet  that  trampled  down 
The  banner  of  the  bars, — 

And  bless  the  hands  that  held  aloft 
The  glorious  stripes  and  stars  ! 

And  let  the  brazen  bells  ring  clear, 

And  let  the  people,  cheer  on  cheer, 
Welcome  these  men  of  scars  ! 


GLEAMS    OF    PEACE. 

THE  June  sky  reaches  down,  pure,  deeply  blue ; 

The  fields  grow  crimson  in  the  clover  glow ; 
A  glimpse  of  heaven  has  almost  broken  through 

The  screening  veil,  to  cheer  us  as  we  go ; 
And  God,  who  has  frowned  on  us,  smiles  again, 

And  turns  to  gladness  all  our  weary  woe. 

Four  years  of  blood  !     The  way  has  been  so  sad  ! 

The  life-blood  of  our  bravest  and  our  best ! 
Many  have  yielded  up  all  that  they  had 

To  save  their  country  !  loyal  manifest ! 
Yielded  them  to  the  nobly  deathless  fame 

That  shall  forever  mark  our  soldiers'  rest ! 

To  die  for  Country,  Liberty,  and  Right ! 

A  holy  cause  !     I  almost  envy  those 
Who  sleep  in  nameless  graves,  this  summer  night, 

A  sacrifice  unto  our  country's  foes  ! 


GLEAMS   OF  PEACE. 


139 


No  better  death  to  die  !  no  grander  fate 

To  meet  and  conquer,  all  the  wide  world  knows  ! 

We  look  for  day  !  we  think  the  night  is  o'er ! 

The  south  wind,  sighing  o'er  the  blooming  hills, 
Speaks  to  us  gently  thoughts  unsaid  before, 

And  in  the  solemn  hush  of  twilight  stills 
We  catch  Divine  suggestions  of  the  peace 

Which  shall  descend  upon  us  when  God  wills. 

The  war  is  ended  !     Do  we  think,  and  speak, 

The  words  with  all  the  grateful  thrill  they  claim  ? 

Have  our  hard  lessons  brought  submission  meek 
Unto  His  will,  whom  all  the  angels  name 

With  reverent  voices,  as  we  mention  those 
Whom  holy  martyrdom  consigned  to  fame  ? 

We  weep  for  those  we  loved  and  yielded  up ; 

There  are  deep  graves  in  many  bosoms  here, 
Sorrow's  stern  hand  has  pressed  the  bitter  cup 

To  many  a  lip ;  but  God  is  always  near 
To  those  who  mourn  ;  and  He  will  not  forget 

To  dry  the  weeping  eye  and  anguished  tear. 

At  peace  !     My  soul  thrills  at  the  welcome  sound  ! 

At  peace  once  more  !     No  battle-trump  to  blow  ! 
No  martial  bugles  o'er  the  hills  resound — 

No  tramp  of  armed  men — no  crimson  flow 
Of  life  upon  the  hillsides'  lush  green  grass ; 

At  peace  !  and  o'er  us  summer's  golden  glow  ! 

June,  1865. 


140 


SPRING. 
1866. 

THE  quiet  earth  greens  at  the  touch  of  spring  ; 

No  more  the  mild  blue  skies  are  dim  with  smoke, 
No  more  the  bugle's  startling  war-notes  ring, 

No  more  the  sunshine  glints  the  sabre's  stroke. 

The  bluebird  whistles  from  the  forest  tree  ; 

The  wood  is  sweet  with  wild  arbutus'  breath  ; 
The  winds  that  sweep  the  fragrant  southern  sea 

No  longer  bring  us  news  of  strife  and  death. 

The  war  is  ended  !  we  can  sleep  at  night, 
Dreaming  no  more  of  bristling  battle-plains, 

Where  men  and  horses  mingle  in  the  fight, 

And  shot  and  shell  drop  fast  their  murderous  rains. 

The  faithful  sentinel  can  rest  him  now  ; 

His  musket  hangs  above  some  cottage  door  ; 
His  children  climb  to  kiss  his  lips  and  brow, 

And  hear  the  story  of  the  charge  once  more. 

Peace  reigns.     'Tis  quiet  all  across  the  land  ! 

The  hearth-fires  gleam  ;  the  heroes  are  at  home, 
Save  those  who  fell  from  out  the  loyal  band, 

Whose  tired  feet  will  never  homeward  come. 


AT  LAST. 


141 


God  rest  them  well !  and  let  the  summer  rain 
Fall  gently  on  the  sod  that  o'er  them  grows ! 

Relieved  from  care,  released  from  toil  and  pain, 
They  heed  not  summer's  flowers  or  winter's  snows. 

Bought  with  a  price  !  a  price  of  precious  blood  ! 

This  glorious  peace  that  in  the  end  is  ours  ! 
God  sent  His  judgments  in  a  fiery  flood, — 

His   peace   at   last,   her  forehead   crowned  with 
flowers ! 


AT    LAST. 

THE  snows  of  winter  fall  around ; 

The  Northern  breezes  blow  ; 
The  hearth  is  piled  with  blazing  logs, 

That  fill  the  room  with  glow; 
No  more  our  thoughts  go  out  afar 

To  dreary  prison-cells, 
No  more  the  south  winds  seem  to  us 

Like  dismal  funeral  knells. 

No  more  the  printed  page  of  death 
Glares  in  our  shrinking  eyes ; 

No  more  we  seem  to  hear,  by  night, 
The  dying's  feeble  cries. 

Thank  God  for  that !  at  last,  at  last, 
The  weary  war  is  o'er ! 
13* 


142 


AT  LAST. 

Oh,  days  of  waiting,  nights  of  gloom, 
Return  to  us  no  more  ! 

Something  is  lost  from  many  a  home  ! 

Somewhere  they  lie  to-night, 
The  noble  hearts  who  died  to  win 

The  battle  for  the  right. 
Peace  to  them  !     Though  we  miss  the  love 

That  swelled  for  us  alone, 
We're  thankful  that  they  died  a  death 

We'll  never  blush  to  own  ! 

And  for  the  living !  those  who've  come 

Back  to  their  homes  again, 
Scarred  with  their  wounds,  all  bronzed,  and  gray, 

And  furrowed  with  sharp  pain, — 
Be  tender  of  them  !     We  have  dwelt 

In  peace  and  quiet  here, 
While  they  have  fought  to  save  for  us 

All  that  we  held  most  dear. 

Honor  the  soldiers  !     Wheresoe'er 

You  see  the  faded  blue, 
Think  that  it  hides  a  loyal  heart, 

To  land  and  honor  true  ! 
And  when  at  night,  these  wintry  nights, 

We  gather  side  by  side, 
One  moment's  tender  silence  give 

To  those  who  fought  and  died. 

February,  1866. 


POEMS  OF  THE  SEASONS. 


JANUARY. 

THE  snow  lies  heavy  on  the  hills, 

The  lowland  wastes  are  white, 
The  sharp  wind  whistles  shrill  and  cold 

In  the  great  elms,  to-night ; 
And  through  the  dim  old  hemlock  woods 

It  heaves  a  quivering  sigh, 
And  all  the  glittering  host  of  stars 

Listen  and  hear  the  cry ; 
While  like  a  globe  of  frozen  ice 

The  moon  hangs  in  the  sky. 

The  hazel's  dainty  twigs  are  white, 

Touched  by  the  silvery  frost ; 
The  hawthorn  and  the  cedar  hedge 

In  fleecy  drifts  are  lost ; 
And  down  upon  the  broad  blue  lake 

The  waters  take  their  rest 
Beneath  the  crystal  coffin-lid 

Of  ice  upon  their  breast : 
A  conquered  warrior,  pinioned  down, 

The  mill-wheel  stands  confessed. 

Out  on  the  river's  glittering  plain 
The  skater's  steel  rings  clear  : 

Winter's  for  him  the  carnival 
Of  all  the  beauteous  year ; 

(MS) 


I46  FEBRUARY. 

O'er  the  hard-trodden  frozen  track 
The  gay  sleighs  speed  along, 

The  iron  hoof-beats  keeping  time 
To  many  a  wild  old  song, 

And  underneath  the  soft  fur  robes 
Young  hearts  beat  high  and  strong. 

Midwinter  !  though  we  own  thy  reign 

A  tyrant's,  yet,  for  all, 
There  are  some. compensations  still 

Within  thy  frozen  thrall ! 
With  hope,  and  youth,  and  love  for  ours, 

It's  little  grief  to  know 
That  all  outside  our  fire-lit  home 

Is  buried  in  the  snow ; 
For  when  we  live  with  those  we  love, 

We  bask  in  summer's  glow. 


FEBRUARY. 

THERE  is  a  silence  chill  as  death,  and  deep, 

O'er  all  the  stretch  of  wood,  and  field,  and  plain; 

River  and  brook  are  hushed  in  noiseless  sleep ; 
The  fields  wear  garments  white  without  a  stain  ; 

The  bare  gaunt  trees  are  draped  with  glittering  frost ; 
The  sun  will  change  each  diamond  flake  to  gold. 

Night,  pitying  them,  because  their  leaves  were  lost, 
Covered  their  shivering  limbs  up  from  the  cold 
With  fleecy  frost,  soft  feathery  fold  on  fold. 


FEBRUARY. 


147 


The  moaning  pines  have  ceased  their  tireless  song, 

And  stand  in  majesty,  erect  and  grim, 
Black  where  the  shadows  lie  in  state  along 

Their  frozen  labyrinths,  so  weird  and  dim; 
But  by-and-by  the  northern  wind  will  rise, 

And   through    their   organ-pipes   his  strong  breath 

sweep, 
And  all  the  soul  of  song  which  underlies 

These  subtle  silences  shall  rouse  from  sleep, 

And  stir  to  life,  and  sound,  the  hush  so  deep. 

The  lowlands,  where  the  river  winds  its  course, 

Its  sinuous  course,  through  swamp,  and  wood,  and 
fell, 

Are  resonant  with  voices  rude  and  hoarse, 
Which  wake  the  echoes  of  the  hemlock  dell ; 

Sharp  as  the  crack  of  deadly  rifles  breaks 

Upon  the  shuddering  air  when  strife  is  dread,  ' 

The  solid  ice,  which  covers  streams  and  lakes, 
Snaps  where  the  frost  its  mail  has  sundered, 
As  if  the  dead  stream  turned  beneath  its  coffin-lid. 

The  stars  grow  faint,  and  merge  into  the  glow 
Which  bursts  through  all  the  sable  face  of  night ; 

The  waning  moon  far  in  the  west  hangs  low, 
And  sinks  her  lessening  crescent  out  of  sight; 

The  yellowing  east  glows  warm,  and  streaks  of  fire 
Shoot  zenith-ward,  the  horizon  burns  red ; 

The  mountain-brows,  that  to  the  clouds  aspire, 
Blush  in  the  soft  effulgence  round  them  shed, 
And  all  the  earth  with  sunlight  is  o'erspread. 


1 48  MARCH. 


MARCH. 

MUD  underfoot,  fogs  overhead, 

Rain,  drizzle,  gloom,  and  mist, 
Winter  and  Spring  are  reconciled, 

Have  met  again  and  kissed. 
Uncertain,  fickle,  fierce,  and  false, 

A  monster  in  his  rage 
Is  March,  a  lion  wild  to  break 

The  boundary  of  his  cage. 

Parent  of  winds  and  frantic  storms, 

Patron  of  sulky  nights, 
When  all  the  sky  is  bloody  red 

With  dancing  Northern  Lights  ; 
Repenting  now  and  then,  to  show 

Suns  like  the  suns  of  June, 
And  soft,  cerulean,  placid  skies 

Above  a  placid  moon. 

White  snows,  forgetful  of  the  time, 

Drifting  across  the  hills, 
And  spurious  ice  bridging  across 

Emancipated  rills; 
Touches  of  fiercest  polar  cold, 

Blasts  from  boreal  shores, 
Sweeping  with  fiendish  rage  and  spite 

The  dreary  waste  of  moors, 


APRIL. 

Crushing  with  brutal  cold  the  flowers 

That  fain  would  burst  to  bloom, 
Dooming  all  vegetating  things 

Unto  a  common  tomb, 
Nipping  with  frosty  breath  the  life 

Of  bud,  and  sprout,  and  leaf; 
But  little  care  we  for  his  power, 

Knowing  his  reign  is  brief. 


149 


APRIL. 

A  FAINT,  soft  breath  from  low-hung  skies, 

As  if  it  swept  o'er  flowers ; 
A  languid  sweetness  running  through 

The  long  day's  dreamy  hours; 
The  violet  haze  upon  the  hills 

Drops  on  the  leafless  trees, 
And  in  the  west  the  setting  moon 

Is  drowned  in  purple  seas. 

A  sweet,  green  prescience  clothes  the  fields ; 

And,  in  the  bosky  dells, 
The  violet  and  forget-me-not 

Unclose  their  bright-hued  cells ; 
The  streams  released  from  icy  chains 

White  down  the  highlands  flow, 
And  the  great  river's  troubled  breast 

Is  white  with  foamy  snow. 
J4 


MAY. 

The  fruit-trees  droop  with  crimson  buds, 

A  prophecy  of  bloom  ; 
The  crocus  and  the  daffodil 

The  garden-beds  illume ; 
The  pale  arbutus  springs  to  life, 

And  opes  its  starry  eyes 
In  quiet  forest  paths  and  vales, 

Where  mellow  sunshine  lies. 

Anon  upon  the  crystal  air 

Rings  out  the  robin's  note; 
And  from  the  tall  elm  by  the  spring 

The  bluebird's  warblings  float ; 
The  lambs  bleat  on  the  pasture  hills, 

And  frolic  at  their  play, 
And  all  the  earth  seems  listening 

To  hear  the  step  of  May. 


MAY. 

THE  air  is  full  of  golden  glows : 

Sweet  prophecies  of  June 
Are  on  the  sunset  skies  each  night, 

Which  face  the  rising  moon ; 
In  molten  seas  of  amber  mist 

The  stars  shrink  out  of  sight, 
And  in  a  maze  of  fervid  hues 

The  day  blends  with  the  night. 


MAY. 

The  morning  airs  are  sharp  with  frost ; 

Smells  of  the  pine  and  fern 
Come  from  the  east  hills,  where  like  fire 

The  sunrise  glories  burn  ; 
And  in  the  pasture  at  the  gate 

The  lazy  cattle  stand, 
Watching  the  farmer  as  he  goes 

To  sow  his  fertile  land. 

The  dandelion  stars  the  field 

With  yellow/splendor  gay, 
The  orchards  dress  themselves  in  white, 

Because  the  time  is  May; 
The  plains  are  greening  in  the  sun, 

And  soon  the  clover  grass 
Will  crimson  all  the  meadow-lands 

O'er  which  the  wild  bees  pass. 

Oh,  rare  west  winds,  and  airs  of  balm, 

Steal  down  from  wild-wood  heights  ! 
Oh,  scents  of  spruce,  and  pine,  and  fern, 

And  breath  of  sweet  delights, 
Come  softly  to  me,  o'er  the  reach 

Of  rippling  sunlit  bay, 
And  linger  long, — oh,  linger  long  ! 

Because  the  time  is  May  ! 


I5  2  JUNE. 


JUNE. 

A  RADIANT  wealth  of  golden  stills, 

A  tender  azure  sky, 
A  wind  whose  touch  is  sweet  and  soft 

As  breaths  of  Araby; 
Nights  luminous  with  twinkling  stars, — 

Heaven's  lamps  of  crystal  bright, — 
While  over  all  the  moon  pours  down 

Her  flood  of  silver  light. 

The  clover-blooms  on  meadow-lands 

Scent  all  the  ambient  air, 
And  crimson  roses  lavish  forth 

Their  odors  sweetly  rare  ; 
The 'chestnut-trees  droop  heavily 

With  weight  of  verdant  leaves, 
And  through  the  cool  shade  of  their  boughs 

The  west  wind's  spirit  breathes. 

A  white  mist  shrouds  the  distant  lake 

In  a  soft,  fleecy  veil, 
And  hides  the  lilies  floating  there, 

The  lilies  pure  and  pale ; 
The  crickets  chant  beneath  the  grass 

A  lonesome,  weird  refrain, 
Like  the  slow  beating  on  the  turf 

Of  the  autumnal  rain. 


JULY.  I53 

The  sleepy  whip-poor-will  pours  forth 

His  melancholy  song, 
So  like  -the  wailing,  sorrowing  note 

Of  some  immortal  wrong ; 
And  on  the  shingly  shore  the  waves 

Make  music  sad  and  low, 
As  they  toss  up  their  foamy  wreaths, 

White  as  the  drifted  snow. 

Oh,  June !  rare  month  of  love  and  hope  ! 

Sweet  time  of  birds  and  flowers, 
Of  golden  hushes,  royal  calms, 

And  long,  bright,  sunny  hours  ! 
Methinks  at  this  full  flush  of  life 

Grand  instincts  spring  to  birth, 
And  that  in  June  sweet  heaven  seems 

A  little  nearer  earth. 


JULY. 

CLAD  in  her  robes  of  green  and  gold 
And  royal  purple,  fold  on  fold, 

Midsummer's  gracious  Queen 
Enters  her  kingdom,  blossom-crowned, 
And  sheds  her  peerless  grace  around 

With  majesty  serene. 

She  brings  a  wealth  of  deep-blue  skies, 
Hot  sunsets  flushed  with  scarlet  dyes 
And  sweet  with  airs  of  balm. 


154 


AUGUST. 

Voluptuous  swells  of  melody, 
Bird  diapasons  wild  and  free, 

Break  on  the  pulseless  calm. 

The  springs  are  low ;  the  tall  grass  dips 
Within  the  brook  its  thirsty  lips, 

To  drink  with  eager  zest ; 
In  the  green  woods  the  shadows  lie 
So  deep,  the  south  wind's  lang'rous  sigh 

Scarce  palpitates  their  rest. 

July  !  thou  priestess  of  the  year  ! 
Sweet  Southron,  from  a  tropic  sphere  ! 

Native  of  some  far  shore  ! 
Rich  tones,  and  thrills,  and  breaths,  are  thine, 
The  souvenirs  of  lands  divine 

Thy  mantle  hath  swept  o'er  ! 


AUGUST, 

SKIES  deeply  blue  as  mountain  lakes, 

A  languorous  atmosphere, 
Hills  bathed  in  clouds  of  purple  haze 

And  seeming  strangely  near ; 
Radiant  and  bright,  a  ball  of  fire, 
The  great  sun  burns  with  fierce  desire 

On  the  perfecting  year. 

The  elms  droop  lazily,  scarce  stirred 
By  the  inactive  breeze ; 


AUGUST.  155 

The  red-winged  birds  drone  dreamily 

Within  their  bowers  of  leaves ; 
While  knee-deep  in  the  sluggish  brook 
The  cattle  stand  with  drowsy  look 

Beneath  the  cool,  green  trees. 

The  reaper's  song  rises  and  falls 

Along  the  ripening  wold  ; 
The  wheat-stacks  stand  like  plumed  hussars 

In  uniforms  of  gold  ; 
And,  far  away  across  the  plain, 
The  teamster  drives  the  loaded  wain, 

And  whistles  all  so  bold. 

Twilight  descends,  a  veil  of  sweets, 

Warm  with  an  amber  mist ; 
The  sunlight  and  the  moonlight 

Have  met  in  love,  and  kissed ; 
While,  through  the  soft  voluptuous  sea 
Of  golden  air,  the  zephyrs  free 

Float  wheresoe'er  they  list. 

August !  the  year's  full  womanhood  ! 

How  fast  thy  glad  hours  fly ! 
Like  all  things  fair  and  beautiful,  f 

Doomed  to  grow  pale  and  die  ! 
Month  of  rare  flowers  and  soft-eyed  stars, 
Of  greening  leaves  and  wind-guitars, 

Red  moons  and  purple  sky  ! 


156  SEPTEMBER. 


SEPTEMBER. 

A  CALM  sky  full  of  clouds  of  golden  mist 

Gilding  the  distant  mountains  brown  and  bare ; 

Sweet  Summer's  lips  pale  Autumn's  cheek  have  kissed, 
And  left  the  impress  of  their  warm  love  there. 

Sunsets  of  vivid  gold  and  purple  haze, 

Stars  that  look  on  you  through  a  mellow  calm, 

Odors  of  fruit  and  flowers,  and  woodland  maze, 
And  west  winds  laden  with  the  breath  of  balm. 

On  fertile  uplands,  at  the  eventide, 

The  busy  reaper  piles  the  groaning  wain  ; 

And  the  old  barn,  whose  broad  doors  stand  so  wide, 
Filled  to  the  ridge-pole  is  with  hay  and  grain. 

The  corn  is  ripening  in  the  gracious  sun, 

The  bursting  husks  display  its  gleaming  gold  ; 

And  on  the  lowland,  rye-stacks,  sere  and  dun, 
Like  trusty  sentinels  stand  plumed  and  bold. 

The  forest  gleams  with  red  and  amber  fires ; 

The  beech  hangs  out  its  primrose-colored  flags ; 
The  sumach  artist's  pencil  never  tires 

Of  painting  scarlet  all  the  mountain  crags. 

At  twilight,  when  the  winds  are  sinking  down, 
In  chestnut  woods  you  hear  the  sweet  refrain 


OCTOBER. 


157 


Made  by  the  ripened  nuts,  as,  plump  and  brown, 
They  fall  like  drops  of  scattered  April  rain. 

The  nights  are  full  of  grand  displays  of  power  ; 

The  northern  skies  with  spires  of  flame  are  set, 
Auroral  lights  in  grand  disorder  tower, 

Shaming  old  Rome  with  dome  and  minaret ! 

O  God  !  beneath  the  wonders  of  Thy  hand 
I  sit  in  silence ;  lip  and  heart  are  dumb  ! 

Earth,  air,  and  ocean,  all  this  wide-spread  land, 
Sprang  to  existence  when  Thou  bad'st  them  COME  ! 

Looking  up  to  the  dim  voids  of  the  sky, 
Where  sails  the  moon,  an  island  in  the  sea, 

My  soul  is  lost ! — words  and  emotions  die  ! 
Thought  only  dwells  on  Thine  Infinity  ! 


OCTOBER. 

THE  yellow  pen  of  Autumn  gilds  the  green, 
And  writes  a  song  of  glory  on  the  leaves ; 

The  crimson  maples  raise  their  brilliant  sheen, 
And   through  the  wood  the  southern  balm-wind 
breathes. 

There  are  soft  voices  in  the  whispering  trees  ; 

Leaf  unto  leaf  saying  its  sad  farewell, — 
Hearing  afar  the  blighting  brumal  breeze 

Along  gray  highlands  lift  its  solemn  swell. 
15 


158  OCTOBER. 

The  star-eyed  frost-flower,  at  the  trees'  dun  feet, 
Nods  low,  as  listening  to  the  fairy  sprites, 

Which,  maybe,  at  this  season  love  to  meet 

And  trip  the  elfin  dance  these  lonesome  nights. 

The  snow-white  rabbit,  changed  to  dapple  gray, 
Hops  light  along  the  leafy,  rustling  aisles ; 

The  squirrel,  chirping  on  his  homeward  way, 
Rests  for  a  moment  on  the  low  rail  stiles. 

The  graceful  fox,  with  terror-quickened  bounds, 
Though  thirsty,  stops  not  at  the  silver  rills : 

He  hears  the  baying  of  the  hoarse-mouthed  hounds, 
And  hunters  shouting,  down  the  bare  brown  hills. 

The  partridge  drums  along  the  yellow  dell, 
The  droning  raven  croaks  on  blasted  trees, 

And  in  the  copse  the  quail's  low  piping  bell 
Charms  and  entrances  with  its  melodies. 

The  mellow  apples  blush  in  spacious  heaps, 
Waiting  to  load  the  cumbrous  harvest-wain ; 

The  purple  grapes  gleam  on  the  highland  steeps, 
And  scarlet  thorn-plums  every  hill-side  stain. 

And  at  his  work  the  reaper  whistles  shrill, 

Plodding  his  slow  way  o'er  the  wheat-grown  wold  ; 

And  in  the  fields  the  corn-shocks  stand  so  still 
They  seem  like  towers  of  tessellated  gold. 

By  Northern  lakes  the  wild  geese  have  long  talks, 
Each  shrill  voice  clamorous,  vain  of  rule  and  sway, 


NO  VEMBER. 

Till  through  the  air's  long  labyrinthine  walks 
To  warmer  climes  they  take  their  circling  way. 

The  sun  sinks  down ;  curtains  of  mist  arise 
From  murky  tarn  and  sluggish-bosomed  pool ; 

Dull  fogs  and  vapors,  hide  the  gorgeous  skies, 
And  ocean  breezes  blow  in  fresh  and  cool. 


NOVEMBER. 

THE  fallen  leaves,  wet  with  the  autumn  rain, 

Strew  thickly  all  the  lonely  forest  aisles ; 
The  slant  gold  sunshine  falls  as  if  it  fain 

Would  warm  the  earth  to  summer  with  its  smiles. 
Adown  the  cold,  bleak  hills  the  north  wind  sweeps, 

Fresh  from  the  regions  of  perpetual  snow, 
Born  in  the  chill  zone  where  stern  Winter  keeps 

His  gates  all  locked  against  the  summer's  glow. 

The  gliding  brook  has  hushed  its  soothing  song, 

And  all  the  pasture  rills  are  chilled  to  rest; 
The  mighty  river,  as  it  creeps  along, 

Bears  up  a  coat  of  armor  on  its  breast ; 
The  trees,  like  bony  skeletons,  uplift 

Their  naked  arms  against  the  cold  blue  sky, 
And  at  their  feet  their  cast  leaves  whirl  and  drift, 

And  hide  away,  like  lost  brown  birds,  to  die. 

A  drear,  belated  robin  skims  across 

The  barren  heath ;  a  squirrel,  on  the  wall, 


160  DECEMBER. 

Nibbles  his  acorn,  with  no  sense  of  loss, 

For  autumn's  frosts  make  the  ripe  chestnuts  fall. 

The  wild  geese,  fleeing  from  the  Northern  lakes, 
Mingle  their  croaking  with  the  shrieking  wind, 

And  through  the  tangle  of  the  copse-wood  brakes 
The  hunted  stag  leaps  with  the  hounds  behind. 

At  night  the  sky  above  the  purple  hills, 

And  all  the  rifted  waste  of  cloudy  heights, 
Are  radiant,  and  through  the  twilight  stills 

Like  chapel  tapers  burn  the  stars'  bright  lights ; 
The  circled  moon,  like  Saturn  and  his  rings, 

Looks  with  cold  eye  upon  the  cold  below ; 
The  air  so  full  of  keen  and  frosty  stings 

Utters  its  prophecies  of  coming  snow  ! 


DECEMBER. 

THE  cold  winds,  heavy  with  the  breath  of  frost, 
Rush  down  the  lonesome  gorges  of  the  hills ; 

The  withered  leaves,  their  autumn  crimson  lost, 
Strew  the  smooth  surface  of  the  ice-bound  rills. 

The  elm-trees  lift  their  rifled  boughs  aloft, 
The  dark  pines  shiver  on  the  mountain  ridge, 

And  o'er  the  gliding  river's  music  soft 

The  King  of  Frost  has  built  a  crystal  bridge. 

Soon  o'er  the  mountain  peaks  that  rise  supreme, 
To  bathe  their  foreheads  in  the  sunset  glow, 


DECEMBER.  161 

Like  the  vague  mistiness  of  some  cold  dream 
Will  come  the  first  faint  messengers  of  snow. 

Summer  is  past !  I  hear  the  whispered' words 
From  out  the  grim  hiatus  she  has  left ; 

Gone,  with  her  wealth  of  flowers  and  singing-birds, 
And  we,  who  loved  her,  sorrow  on  bereft. 

Oh,  Summer  !  in  thy  mellow  days  of  balm 

The  gates  swung  open  to  the  graveward  track ; 

Heaven  has  another  voice  in  the  sweet  psalm, — 
An  added  treasure, — and  the  earth  a  lack. 

Ah,  well !  the  way's  not  long,  and  by-and-by 
We  shall  look  back  on  what  we  suffered  here, 

And  wonder  that  we  thought  it  worth  a  sigh, 
Or  worth  the  silent  utterance  of  a  tear  ! 

Passed  !  and  the  harvest  ended  !    Night  is  come  ! 

Day  dies  in  sable  gloom  along  the  west ; 
The  night  of  winter  falls  :  we  turn  to  home, 

Our  recompense, — our  promised  place  of  rest. 

I  am  content !  Amen, — so  let  it  be  ! 

Peace  lives  within  no  doubt  can  e'er  dispel ! 
Throughout  all  space  a  calm  exists  for  me, — 

I  hear  the  grand  assurance — ALL  is  WELL  ! 


THE    END. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-50m-4,'61(B8994s4)444 


PS 


:150 


Jones  - 


J714A17  Poems 


PS 

2150 

J714A17 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  L  BRARY  FACILITY 


III  !•••••      ••      ' 

AA      000033381    5 


